


A Dark World Aches

by dynazty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Antique Shops, Case Fic, Coffee Shops, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Unspeakable Harry, also draco can speak french, and play the piano, arist!draco (sort of), because he's pretentious! but he's working on it don't worry, but i hope you'll come take a peek regardless, gratuitous use of imagery, house plants!, like a lot of house plants, medieval architecture, now featuring: unintentional caffeine addictions and muggle rock music, polyjuice, secret identities!, spy!harry (kind of), the english countryside, there's also a lot of cooking, yes this is self-indulgent and folly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynazty/pseuds/dynazty
Summary: Harry's an Unspeakable who dabbles in undercover work; Malfoy's an antiques curator with an odd affinity for cable-knit jumpers and sushi — and he's being accused of murder. Who's going to save him?Why, the bloody Savior, of course.(Or: the one with secret identities, excessive amounts house plants, poor weather, coffee shops, ladybugs, wizarding art history, and an admittedly unreliable narrator.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> friendly reminder that **trans rights are human rights**. i do not support or condone j.k. rowling's statements, nor will i ever. regardless — harry potter was and is my childhood, and i refuse to let her bigoted opinions overshadow the universe that shaped a very large part of my identity. my queer identity, mind you. 
> 
> for information on how to support the lgbtq+ community, i highly recommend looking into [glaad](https://www.glaad.org/) or the [trevor project](https://www.thetrevorproject.org/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIv4SHtYn36wIVVBh9Ch3dnQ5UEAAYASAAEgKe6fD_BwE).
> 
> with that said, i sincerely hope you enjoy this work. feedback is highly encouraged and appreciated <3 ratings and tags will change as the story progresses!

Article B, paragraph two of _The Unspeakable’s Guide to Sheer and Absolute Secrecy_ states that “No witch or wizard who has successfully obtained Unspeakable status may, at any point, reveal his or her true identity while (a) deployed on fieldwork duty or (b) corresponding with his or her partner.”

Unfortunately for Harry, this means Polyjuice — lots and lots of Polyjuice. Far more Polyjuice than he thinks is strictly necessary to keep a low profile, but he never complains, not out loud. 

He tries to consider himself lucky; being in the position he is, his privacy is rarely respected. Some days he resents Hogwarts for not offering a class on how to deal with overbearing journalists and relentless photographers, but alas, not everyone has the problems he does. They have real problems, like money management and taxes.

Black and white snapshots of Harry walking through Diagon Alley or bending over food platters at Ministry events splash across the _Daily Prophet_ more days than not, the article beneath describing his every move in meticulous, hyperbolic detail. They don’t even say his name sometimes; everywhere he looks it’s “Savior” this and “Chosen One” that, bold and italicized at the top of every front page for all the wizarding world to see. 

He isn’t a real person in the eyes of the press, only a buzzword that keeps their profits churning.

The only time they ever back off is when he’s on duty. He’s no longer Harry Potter when he’s on duty; he's Agent Green, Level Thirteen Undercover Operative. 

Sure, it’s common knowledge that Harry Potter works in the Department of Mysteries, but what he _does_ in the Department of Mysteries is not. It’s not allowed to be. And he’s perfectly happy with that.

Because for eight hours a day, six days a week, he’s allowed to be someone else. Someone who doesn’t get mobbed in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria; someone who doesn’t get followed home after the Floos have been shut down; someone who doesn’t get whispered about and stared at with every corner he rounds and every door he ducks through. 

The whispers are the worst. 

Whispers, so harmless yet so infuriating; whispers that swarm him like bees to a hive, nipping his ears and clouding his vision and making him tremble because he can’t swat them away without getting stung. Whispers that make his lungs contract and his fingers twitch with discomfort; whispers that make him want to crawl out of his own skin.

So, he’s lucky — even if Polyjuice is fucking repulsive. 

Standing over the cracked sink of his office bathroom, Harry watches his face writhe and melt into an unfamiliar one, fingers gripping the porcelain basin for dear life. His shoulders shrink along with his forehead, and his nose stretches and snaps into place. His feet grow wider as his legs grow longer, guts aching as they reshelve themselves inside his torso. Groaning, he wrenches his eyes shut and ignores the wave of nausea that washes over the back of his head and continues in currents down to his toes.

He still hasn’t gotten used to the sensation, but he doubts he ever will. Every new body feels different than the last, scrambling Harry’s intestines so thoroughly that he’s surprised he doesn’t have organ damage. (Does too much Polyjuice have long-term effects on the body? He makes a mental note to ask Hermione next time they have lunch.)

As the transition comes to a finish, Harry blinks his eyes open and tries to focus on the mirror in front of him. It’s dirty — streaked with fingerprints and frosted with dust — but he doesn’t care enough to spell it clean. Instead, he teeters closer and squints at his reflection. 

He’s chosen a good piece of hair, apparently, because the face that stares back is a handsome one. 

This body can’t be much older than Harry, as his skin is clean-shaven and unblemished like porcelain. His hair has lost its curl, but it’s still as dark and messy as ever, sticking out over his new forehead like brier. His lips are thinner, too, and his nose has lost its signature bump from years of broken noses. But, what strikes him the most out of everything is that — despite the new round jaw and cocoa-brown eyes — his skin tone has not changed. At least, not much. 

The prospect makes his new mouth quirk up in the mirror. He’s grown so accustomed to changing ethnicities when he uses Polyjuice that he doesn’t think twice about it anymore. It isn’t necessarily anyone’s fault that the selection of DNA for guises is overwhelmingly white — to be fair, England itself is overwhelmingly white — but it’s nice to see a version of himself in the mirror nevertheless. If he were a gambling man, he’d bet this body is of Indian descent, just like him. It’s impossible to know exactly from where; much to his embarrassment, he doesn’t know the ethnic geography of Southern Asia off the top of his head, despite the bits and pieces of research he’s done on his father’s ancestry. 

Experimentally, he takes a step back from the sink and pulls his glasses out of his pocket. When he unfolds and places them gingerly on the bridge of his nose, his smile widens. While he doesn’t look _exactly_ like himself, there are enough resemblances that he could probably play his own stunt-double in a Muggle film. Or the other way around. That’s more likely, really, given that this body is far more handsome than Harry could ever hope to be.

One thing that stands out a little too starkly is the color of his new eyes; they’re deep brown, sunk into his face and heavy-lidded. Sultry, almost. For a brief moment he considers keeping the glasses as part of his disguise, but quickly banishes the thought when he remembers who exactly he’s going to be spying on. 

A muffled knock on the bathroom door and the voice of his partner startles him out of his trance. “Agent Green?”

“Bates?” he replies, shrinking and slipping his glasses back into his pocket.

“It’s me. Are you done in there?” 

“Almost!” He points his wand down and casts a Growth Charm on his shoes and trousers so they fit easier and smoothes down the creases in his thick, black robe. After giving himself a final once-over, he unlocks the door and steps out of the bathroom. 

His partner, Agent Bates, Level Twelve Undercover Operative, is perched on the dark-ochre desk in the middle of the room. She’s cloaked in her standard-issue Polyjuice disguise, but she’s used a couple of glamour charms to lock her coarse hair into tight braids that run parallel across her scalp. At his appearance, her dense eyebrows shoot up. 

“How do I look?” he asks, holding his arms out generously.

“Different,” she says.

“Better, right?”

“I suppose.” She frowns and stands up, scanning Harry’s guise up and down. “You look familiar, actually. Like—”

“Harry Potter,” Harry finishes for her, suppressing a grin. She doesn’t know that Agent Green and Harry Potter are, in fact, the same person; the only person who knows is Harry’s boss, the Department head, and Harry barely sees her as it is. “I know. Bizarre, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Her tone is clipped, as per usual. Since the very beginning of their partnership, Harry has suspected that her true identity is a grumpy, middle-aged woman with greying roots. She acts a lot like one, anyway, with her carefully crafted facial expressions and monosyllabic answers. It is possible that she’s not actually a woman at all, but she’s his first partner to use a female body as their primary disguise, so he thinks of her that way in uncertain terms. Her icy demeanor almost reminds him of Professor McGonagall some days, and Harry loves her for it. “It’s not uncanny, though.”

This time Harry lets himself grin. “It’s because I’m prettier than him, isn’t it?”

She snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far. Did you choose it on purpose?”

“What, this body?”

“Yes.”

His grin falters. “No, why would I have done that?”

She just shrugs, leaning over and plucking a piece of lint off Harry’s shoulder. “Because we’re investigating Draco Malfoy.”

“And?”

Something like amusement flickers across her face. “I think you can connect the dots from there.”

“No, I don’t think I can.” Harry wrinkles his brow. What does Malfoy have to do with his disguise? Nevermind that-

“Potter and Malfoy have history, Green. You know this.” 

History. Right.

“Yes, I do know that,” he says, all of a sudden feeling itchy under his layer of new skin. “Do you think that’ll be a problem?”

“Like I said, it’s not uncanny,” she replies, stepping back and turning to leave, “so you should be fine. It’ll be an interesting investigation, though. At least on my end.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Bates merely smiles over her shoulder at him, calm and collected. It’s her patient smile, the one that lets Harry know when he’s asking too many questions. “I believe it’s common knowledge that Draco Malfoy was always a bit of an oaf for Harry Potter. Perhaps seeing an old face will make him open up more; Merlin knows it would make our jobs easier if he did.”

Harry snorts, following her into the corridor outside his office. “I highly doubt that,” he says before noticing abruptly that the walls of the corridor are a different color than they were yesterday. “Oh, brilliant.” His bloody office decided to switch floors again. “What level are we on?” 

“Seven,” Bates supplies. “You highly doubt that he’s an oaf for Potter, or that he’ll open up?”

“Both.” 

As Harry shuts the door with a click and starts towards the lift at the end of the corridor, Bates smile stretches. “I suppose we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

* * *

Tisbury is a dainty village nestled deep among the sprawling hills of Wiltshire county. Long cobblestone roads weave past groves of trees and tinkling streams, meeting in the middle and opening onto a wide paved street that is lined with charming little coffee shops and antiquated brick houses. The neighborhoods that surround the main street remind Harry distantly of Hogsmeade; clusters of buildings are squashed next to each other like library books on a shelf, all cozy and quaint with their frosted windows and Tudor-style paneling. The sky stretches above Harry’s head like an upside-down lake, rippling with clouds and shining a brilliant shade of blue. 

He and Bates have Apparated straight from the Atrium to the outskirts of the village, landing together in a hidden clearing so they don’t risk breaking the Statute. They’ve also deliberately worn Muggle clothes beneath their silky black uniforms so they can shrink their robes and pocket them to avoid sticking out like sore thumbs amongst the locals. 

Sunlight dapples Harry’s worn-down trainers as they exit the clearing and turn onto the nearest road, gravel crunching under his soles and causing plumes of dust to curl around his ankles. Somewhere above him, songbirds and bluejays titter away in the swaying elm trees. 

“Malfoy Manor is up that way,” Bates says after a long stretch of road, pointing past the peaked rooftops of the village and at the elevated hillside beyond. 

_I know_ , Harry wants to say, but he bites his tongue and nods instead. The last time he visited the Manor was when he worked as a field Auror, tracking down any affiliates of Voldemort and figuring out what to do with them. On a whim, Robards sent him and him alone to the Manor to round up the Malfoys like cattle, and Harry hated every minute of it. 

In the end, he spoke at their trial in an attempt to soften the punishment of Draco and his mother, knowing full-well that they had only sided with Voldemort out of self-preservation. They were released with a strict warning and two years of parole, but Lucius wasn’t so lucky; he died six months after being sentenced to Azkaban. Whether or not it was of his own accord, Harry doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to know. 

Point is, Malfoy and his mother got off easy — but now he’s getting caught up in a scheme so far-fetched that even Harry doesn’t believe it. 

“It’s the only lead they have,” Bates had said over a week ago after she dropped the case file on his desk. 

“But it’s bloody ridiculous! They don’t even know if Malfoy _can_ restore Dark artifacts, let alone sell them!” Harry had said as he scanned the paperwork critically, frustrating brewing like a potion in his stomach. “Robards can’t just give us all the cases his Aurors aren’t able to solve and wipe his hands of them. It’s not productive!”

Bates smiled grimly. “Green, since when have Aurors ever been productive?” 

_I was_ , he wanted to protest, but that would have (a) given away a significant part of his true identity, and (b) been one behemoth fucking lie. 

The justice system is completely screwed, no matter how hard Harry looks at it, and no politician has yet mustered up the bravery to fix it. All Harry did with his time as an Auror was track down the families of Death Eaters, bully them into cooperation, then send them off with varying sentences to Azkaban or the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo’s. 

He also did paperwork. So much fucking paperwork. The fact that he still has movement in his right hands is a miracle. 

Still, the case he and Bates are assigned to is one with about zero evidence and one lead: Draco Malfoy. But in Harry’s opinion, it shouldn’t be considered a lead at all.

“So what if they found his business card in the waste bin. No wizard even uses business cards. No Dark wizard, at the very least!” Harry had complained, fingers digging into his temples.

“Isn’t that why the case was passed onto us, though?” Bates had asked rhetorically as she leaned against the doorframe of Harry’s office. “Because they don’t have enough evidence. Aurors don’t have enough resources to go undercover and extract more evidence, and they certainly can’t go about arresting civilians willy-nilly. It only makes sense for them to pass it our way.”

Harry had turned to her triumphantly. “So you admit it’s willy-nilly!”

“Of course it’s willy-nilly. I’m trying to tell you that’s why they gave it to us.”

“Fucking bastards.”

“Quite.” 

Harry is yanked out of his reverie when Bates grabs his arm and pulls him out of the way of a car that’s ambling behind them on the gravel road. “Pay attention,” she tells him, curt but gentle at the same time. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes, moving out of her grasp when the car finishes passing them. “Spaced out.”

“I noticed.” 

They continue walking, the gravel beneath their feet fading into cobble as they approach the center of town. Harry keeps his eyes trained on the line of hills beyond; perhaps if he squints hard enough the Manor will reveal itself to him and remind him of how much he hates Malfoy and, additionally, how excited he should be about bringing him down a peg. But all he can see for miles and miles are slanted trees and sloping hills.

“So,” Bates starts, hands sliding into the pockets of her plaid-printed trousers, “Do you want to go over your cover story?”

Harry doesn’t, but he probably should. He’d spent all last night practicing and memorizing his backstory at his flat, script levitating in front of him while he made his dinner and brushed his teeth. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

“Right. What’s your name?”

“Nicholas Rivers,” he recites, the name stamped onto his brain like ink. It’s a boring name, sure, but boring is better when it comes to undercover work.

“Good. How old are you, Nicholas?”

“Twenty-one.” Harry’s twenty-three, but his disguise looks younger, brighter; he can pull off twenty-one if he wants to. 

“Good. Why are you in Wiltshire?”

“I’m renting out a flat downtown so I can travel the area and study ancient wizarding houses.”

“And why are you studying the Manor?”

“Because it’s the focal point of my dissertation.”

Bates smirks a little at that, as if the mere thought of her partner writing a dissertation on something is comedic. Harry doesn’t blame her. “Good. What’s the theme of your dissertation?”

“The history of magical architecture.”

“And what’s the dissertation for?”

Harry blinks, blanking out. “Er… fun?”

Bates raises an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“What am I supposed to say to that?!”

“Be _creative_. These are all questions that could be asked and you must have an answer.”

“The only person asking these questions is you, Bates,” he points out. “Don’t I have the right to remain silent?”

She whacks him on the shoulder, but Harry can see the dimples on her cheeks deepen with silent laughter. “Focus. What’s the dissertation for?”

“Um,” Harry wracks his brain, trying to come up with something Hermione-like to reply with. “I’m writing it because magical architecture has never been delved into quite like other aspects of wizarding history?”

“That’s a start, but keep working on it. Where did you grow up, Nicholas?”

Now Harry knows what he's talking about. “Born in Devon, raised in London,” he says, puffing his chest a little. 

“Good. When were you born?”

He shoots her a withering look. “Draco Malfoy is not going to ask me when I was born.”

“When were you born, Mr. Rivers?” she repeats.

“Blimey, okay. First of December, 1980.” 

“Wrong.”

“What?”

“You’re twenty-one, remember?”

“Yes, I— oh. First of December, 1982.”

“Right.” Bates flashes him a quick smile as they round a corner, emerging onto a lazy residential street. “You’re in good shape,” she says. “Nicholas Rivers sounds riveting.”

Harry’s eyebrows quirk up suggestively. “Was that a pun I just heard?”

“Certainly not. This way.”

They turn together onto the main street of Tisbury, the sound of music and laughter floating out of a myriad of different restaurants and into Harry’s ears. A few people cruise indolently about the sidewalk; a middle-aged Muggle woman pushes a rattling pram across the cobblestones while her husband chats loudly with her, his arms weighed down with grocery bags. On the other side of the street, a pot-bellied man struggles to open the umbrella of his ice-cream trolley while a gaggle of teenagers giggle in his direction.

Harry feels himself grin. “I like it here,” he informs Bates idly. She’s several steps in front of him, gaze trailing along a row of shop awnings. 

“Yes, I thought you might. Your flat should be around here somewhere,” she says squinting at the faded logo of a boutique as they walk past. 

“It’s above a shop?”

“A cafe, actually. It’s called- aha!” She comes to a stop in front of a two-story brick building that has large windows and a couple of shabby tables positioned on the sidewalk. The words “The Blue Door” are scrawled in neat cursive font across the white, flapping awning. It’s a fitting name, Harry supposes; the front door is painted royal blue while the rest of the building remains bare.

“It’s here?”

“Yes, above. There’s a door inside that should lead up to it.”

Harry cranes his neck up so he can peek above the awning. Sure enough, a terraced apartment rises above the cafe, looking out high and mighty over the crosswalk. “Brilliant. Looks nicer than my flat at home.”

“Mine too,” Bates amends. Instead of going inside, like Harry thinks they might, she then takes his arm again and pulls him off to the side of the sidewalk into the crook of a small brick alcove. “Listen,” she says, face schooling itself into seriosity. “This is where I’m supposed to leave you. I’m not allowed to see your personal quarters.”

“What? But they’re not my—” Harry interjects.

“Yes, I know, there’s nothing personal about them yet,” she stops him, raising a palm. “It’s just for safety purposes. The owner of the cafe is also the landlord — she’s a Squib, so you’ll be able to use magic without her making a fuss, but never let her see you without your disguise on. She’s not informed about any of this, and I’d like to avoid Obliviating as many people as possible.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. Now,” she pauses to fish for something in her back pocket. From it, she pulls a shiny gold Galleon and presses it into Harry’s hand, “This is a coin that we can use to communicate remotely. There’s no hearth in your flat, so Flooing and Fire-Calls won’t be possible. Have you used one of these before?”

“Yes,” Harry says truthfully. He used them in Dumbledore’s Army at school, but after the war, they became a trendy device for almost all law enforcement officers. 

“Okay, good.” Bates produces a small smile. “Does that cover everything?”

“For now, yeah.” Harry smiles back. He really does like his partner. 

“Okay. Use the coin whenever you visit the Manor, alright? That way I can track you—”

“Yes, yes, I will. I’ll be fine.” Harry interrupts when her voices starts to pick up speed, sort of like Molly Weasley’s does whenever she gets nervous. “Thanks, Mum.”

Bates whacks his shoulder again, but it lacks reprimand. “Be safe. Don’t do anything stupid without telling me first.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” She exhales then steps out of the alcove, the sunlight hitting her hair just right and making it glow warmly against the early afternoon sky. “Oh, and one more thing.” 

“What?” Harry squints at her through the glare. 

She smiles, but there's something pained about it. “Be nice to Draco Malfoy,” she says. Then, she whirls on her heel, braids flapping out behind her as she starts back in the direction they'd just come from. Harry blinks. 

No one’s ever told him to do that before.


	2. Chapter 2

It all started around a month before Harry’s deployment to Wiltshire, when an unassuming young witch walked into an antique store and purchased a piece of furniture from none other than Draco Malfoy. Three days later, she was reported missing by her next-door neighbor; five days later, she was found dead in her living room by a Patrol Auror. 

According to the case file that fell into Harry’s hands two weeks after the incident, there was no evident cause of death. The Healers at St Mungo’s ruled out a natural passing, as there’d been no underlying medical conditions found during the witch’s autopsy, and she was too young for any “old age” rubbish. 

The most unsettling part: it wasn’t the first time someone had died like this, unexplained and unmarred. High-ranked Aurors and forensic consultants spent days examining the crime scene, trying to find any traces of leftover magic or DNA that could offer them a lead — and they found nothing. Just like they found nothing on the six other cases that were practically identical to this one.

The only thing they did find was a crumpled-up business card in the dead witch’s waste-basket, with the words _“Malfoy Restorations and Refurbishings, est. 2001”_ printed across it in thin calligraphy. 

With no evidence and no other leads in sight, the Aurors took Malfoy’s name and ran with it — ran all the way across the Atrium to the Department of Mysteries, that is. 

Standing at the gate at the end of Malfoy Manor’s long drive with his wand clutched in his fist, Harry’s opinion remains the same; the Aurors are wrong. And prejudiced. Had the name on the business card been anything other than “Malfoy”, they wouldn’t have batted an eye — Harry knows that. He would’ve done the exact same if he were still an Auror. 

But he isn’t. And he knows better.

As he raises his wand and taps on the wrought-iron bars, he can’t help but feel a wave of guilt crash over him. He’s intruding on Malfoy spectacularly just for the sake of “extracting more evidence”, as Bates put it, and it doesn’t feel right. Harry doesn’t _like_ Malfoy whatsoever, but he likes the idea of spying on him even less. It’s an invasion of privacy no matter who he’s disguised as. 

Not to mention that Malfoy is definitely not a murderer, so there’s absolutely no point in getting close to him and spying on him. It’s merely a pain in the ass at this point; just another job that Harry has to do because his superiors told him to. 

He doesn’t fancy getting fired, so of course he’ll do it. But that doesn’t mean he agrees with it — any of it. Malfoy’s a rotten, slimy piece of Hippogriff shit, sure, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. 

“State your purpose!”

Harry startles. The iron gate has twisted itself into a harsh-looking face, and it’s sneering at him unkindly. “Er— I’m here to study the Manor,” he forces out, straightening his shoulders and trying to ignore the fact that the face looks suspiciously Lucius-like. “Can I speak with Mal— er, your master?”

If the face had salivary glands, Harry is sure it would’ve spat at him. “State your name!”

He winces at the tinny, clanging voice. “Nicholas Rivers.”

The gate’s expression screws up unpleasantly while several other coils wrench and slither around it, moving like clockwork. It’s discomforting and mesmerizing at the same time; but, then again, so is anything having to do with the Malfoy name. 

After a long moment of hesitation (thinking? calculating? is the gate sentient?) the face hisses, “The young master will see to you,” then disappears back into the ironwork with a resounding _pop_. 

Harry grimaces, trying his best to shake off any thoughts of the time he faced this gate during the war. He can almost feel the icy grip of Fenrir Greyback’s claws digging into his arms, nails biting his skin. He shivers gently, then rolls his neck to banish the memory. Thankfully, he doesn’t have much time to dwell on the discomfort, because a slender man with a shimmering head of blonde hair has just Apparated a meter away from the iron gate. 

“Are you with the Ministry?” Malfoy’s voice is hard and steady as he approaches the gate, the line of his shoulders rigid with formality. 

Harry frowns minutely at the lack of greeting, but shakes it off in favor of a small, forced smile. “Um, not exactly,” he says, moving to step closer to the bars, then pausing. 

Part of his brain screams that Malfoy will immediately see through his disguise and recognize him if he gets any closer. It’s completely irrational, of course, given the strength of the Polyjuice and the intense work he did to prepare himself. But being face-to-face with his childhood nemesis will no doubt stir up some intensely irrational feelings; he’s only human, after all. 

“I’m here on an academic grant to study the Manor for a dissertation,” he continues, slipping into character and keeping his tone polite. “Surely you’ve been notified by the Department of Magical Education?” 

Although his features are hard to make out behind the crisscrossing bars of the gate, Harry can see a strange look flicker over Malfoy’s pointy face. “I don’t believe I was. Do you have a warrant? A notice from the Ministry?”

Harry relaxes minutely. There’s no sign of recognition, no suspicion, no hesitancy present in Malfoy’s tone. It’s relieving, but also somewhat stinging; now he wants to jump through the gate and grab the blonde git by the shoulders and shake him silly while yelling _“It’s me! It’s me, you bugger! You remember me, don’t you?!”_

Miraculously, he refrains. 

“Yes, I have a warrant.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.” 

Harry reaches into the satchel bag that’s hooked over his shoulder, digging around until his fingers close around a thick slip of parchment. He pulls it out and pushes the (completely fake) warrant against the metal so Malfoy can peer at it through the bars.

The blonde squints and leans forward. Without looking up, he asks, “What’s your name?” 

“Nicholas Rivers,” Harry answers automatically, but the name feels foreign and clunky in his mouth. 

“Rivers,” Malfoy repeats, mostly to himself, and it sounds even more strange rolling off his posh-laden tongue. He looks up from the parchment after a long moment. “Your warrant appears valid, but I’m afraid I can’t allow you onto the grounds today. I wasn’t expecting any visitors and I have business out of town that I must attend this afternoon. Is there an address you can give me so I can owl you a better time?”

This response startles Harry; he specifically woke up early that day so he could arrive at the Manor in the morning and spend the day observing Malfoy and “studying” the grounds. He even packed a lunch in his satchel. 

_“There’s a reason you’ve been deployed an entire month,”_ Bates’ voice echoes sternly in Harry’s head. _“Not everything is going to happen right away. Be patient.”_

“Yes.” He nods reluctantly. “I do. Number 13, Vicarage Road. Flat B.”

The strange look is back. Tilting his head, Malfoy studies Harry a little closer than he likes; his grey eyes seem piercing enough to have X-Ray vision. “You’re staying in town?”

Harry shifts awkwardly, his own gaze dropping to somewhere below Malfoy’s chin so he doesn’t have to meet that scrutinizing gaze. “Temporarily.”

Malfoy hums thoughtfully, a low sound that Harry’s never heard from him before. Something zings up the back of his spine, and he ignores it stubbornly. “Noted. I’ll contact you as soon as I can.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, glancing back up and forcing a smile before stepping back from the gate. Stuffing the faux warrant back into his bag, he adds clumsily, “Thank you. Er, for your time.” 

Through the bars, Malfoy’s face remains carefully blank. “You’re welcome. Good day, Mr. Rivers.”

“You too, Mal— Mr. Malfoy.” Harry turns away from the gate, hand latched onto the strap of his satchel, knuckles white.

“My name is Draco, you know.” 

He whips his head back around. Malfoy’s expression is the same, except his hands are now in the pockets of his- are those Muggle trousers? Caught off guard, he feels his face flush. “Yes, I know.” 

“Do you?” 

He swallows, trying very hard not to stare at Malfoy’s clothes. “I do.” It doesn’t work. His gaze wanders anyways, scanning over a fitted blue knit jumper and, yes, a pair of black Muggle trousers, rolled tightly at the cuffs. _What the fuck?_ By the time he finally snaps his eyes back up, Malfoy’s expression is pinched far too familiarly. But before he can open his mouth to say something defensive, Harry interrupts him. “I was at Hogwarts. I’m— I was a fifth-year, during the war,” he lies.

Malfoy’s expression hardens, but not by much. “Ah,” he says, clearing his throat, “My apologies. I didn’t recognize your name.”

“That’s alright. You were… occupied.”

If Malfoy is put off at all by the comment, he doesn’t show it. “That I was,” he replies stiffly. Then, “What house were you in? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Bates didn’t prep Harry for that question. Quickly, he filters through all his possible options: Ravenclaw is unrealistic, but not unlikely if he’s supposed to be disguised as a scholar. Hufflepuff is too generic; Slytherin is tempting, but far too risky — Malfoy probably knows the house like the back of his hand. “Gryffindor,” he decides, raising his chin. It’s not a lie, this time.

Malfoy remains indifferent. “Figures.”

“What?” Harry asks without meaning to, a trace of indignation lacing his tone. Suddenly realizing his mistake, he inhales sharply and braces himself for a snide _Gryffindork_ joke.

“Nothing,” Malfoy replies easily, surprising Harry by taking a step back from the gate and gearing up to leave. “You just remind me of someone, that’s all.”

Harry blinks. “Oh.” _What? Who? What?_

Malfoy doesn’t elaborate as he continues moving away from the fence. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Rivers. Look for my owl, alright?”

“I— Yes. Will do,” Harry replies, but his voice is stilted. Who does he remind Malfoy of? Harry? Does he remind him of Harry? He almost opens his mouth to ask, but by the time the right words reach the tip of his tongue, a loud crack has rung through the air and the cobbled driveway is empty again. 

Confused and flushed with an emotion he can’t pin a name on, he frowns and turns back towards town.

* * *

As promised, the owl arrives two days later, rapping its talons on the kitchen window of Harry’s new flat and startling him so badly that his mug of coffee slips and shatters onto the linoleum tile. 

“Fucking birds,” he huffs under his breath, stepping carefully over the mess of hot liquid and jagged ceramic so he can unlatch the window over the sink. A blast of cold air slams into him as the tawny owl comes sailing inside, flapping in aimless circles near the ceiling before dropping a wax-sealed letter onto the ground — right into the puddle of coffee.

Sighing, Harry slips out his wand and begins to Vanish the spilled liquid while the owl settles on the open windowsill and lets out a gratifying hoot. “Yeah, thanks, you’re a real help,” he informs the creature sarcastically, flicking his wrist and watching pieces of mug glue themselves back together. 

The envelope is stamped with dark blue wax, the letters _DM_ sunken into the seal in a ridiculously opulent cursive font. Fighting down another sigh, Harry bends down to pluck it from the floor; Malfoy’s clothing choices may be humbler, but his personality certainly isn’t. 

Sliding a bitten-down nail under the seal, Harry pops the envelope open and reaches inside for the letter, expensive-feeling parchment rustling under the pads of his fingers

> _Mr. Rivers—_
> 
> _Assuming you are still interested in observing Malfoy Manor for your scholastic dissertation, I invite you to join me this morning for an informal introduction and walkabout of the property. You need not respond to this letter if you plan on attending; I have instructed the gatekeeper to prepare for your arrival at any given time today, and the wards will notify me in occurrence. If you’re busy, I advise that you simply don’t show up — I’ll take the hint._
> 
> _Cordially,  
>  Draco L. Malfoy_
> 
> _(P.S.: I do apologize if Tanya has disrupted your morning terribly — she is an old, mentally deteriorating owl who has lost all faith in good manners. If she has caused any damage to your windows or household appliances, do let me know so I may compensate on her behalf. Thank you.)_

Looking up from the note, Harry directs an amused smirk at the offending owl. “Your owner speaks highly of you.”

The owl — Tanya — hoots and ruffles her feathers indignantly. 

Harry laughs and dismisses her with a wave, padding out of the kitchen and into the bathroom to finish his morning routine and prepare himself to see Malfoy again. He showers quickly, filling the cramped apartment with pine-scented steam, then changes into a pair of warm wool trousers and a chunky mock-neck jumper after downing a particularly nasty dose of Polyjuice. 

Just by glancing outside, he can tell that the October air is crisp and blustery, so he wraps a knit orange scarf around his neck and shrugs on a sleek winter coat that flaps around his calves when he walks. By the time he’s pulled on his shoes and locked the door behind him, the cafe has opened up and the sounds of clacking espresso machines and muted chatter drift into the stairwell that connects the landing of apartments to the shopfront. 

He slips easily down the stairs and through the cafe, only pausing to nod amicably at the landlady — a stout woman with a head of greying hair and a chipper voice named Mrs. Plum. She’d shown him around the apartment the day before, explaining fondly how she’s lived in the flat across the hall for nearly thirty years and owned the cafe for forty. Harry already likes her a lot, with her cheerfully-wrinkled forehead and kind smile, and even more so when she offers him a fresh cappuccino for the road.

The flat he’s renting from her is nice, too — much nicer than his real one back in London. It has bare brick walls and creaky wood floors, a cozy living room crowded with a sagging red sofa and a pair of well-loved armchairs that are perched atop a beautiful Persian rug. There’s also a small television, an overstuffed bookcase, and a pair of wide windows that peer jovially over the serene streets of Tisbury like. The kitchen is decorated in soft yellows and greens, and the bedroom has a sturdy oak four-poster that sends Harry blissfully back to his nights at Hogwarts.

The only downside is that, with no hearth or Floo system, he’s been almost completely cut off from his life. The only thing connecting him to Bates is the small, twinkling Galleon that heats up in his palm whenever he’s sent a message. Usually, his undercover missions involve much more exciting fieldwork, like infiltrating dangerous potion cartels or investigating illegal Time-Turner manufacturers -- but the stakes aren’t nearly as high this time around, and he doesn’t necessarily need to be in constant contact with his team. Still. It’s rather weird to be so isolated on a case like this, where Harry’s only job is to make friends with Draco Malfoy. 

_“You’re spying on a potential serial killer, of course the stakes are high,”_ Bates’ imaginary voice scolds him.

But he isn’t. Malfoy’s not a killer, let alone a serial one. He’s not stupid enough to be a killer. He’s _not_.

_“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Green.”_

A morning fog coats the village like a translucent blanket, swallowing up the pointed roofs and teetering chimneys of the neighborhood and lightly frosting the windows of storefronts. Harry keeps one hand stowed in the pocket of his tweed coat while the other clutches his warm paper cup of coffee, chin burrowed in his collar as he strides down the sidewalk. He moves briskly through the town and its winding back roads, determinedly towards the cobbled pathways that twist and turn up into the hills. 

Eventually, after about ten minutes of walking, he finds a small alley nestled behind a row of quiet, handsome cottages that he can Apparate discreetly from. 

Seconds later, he touches down a few meters away from the cast iron gate of the Manor, its bars still as intricate and intimidating as before. 

“Morning!” he calls sarcastically to the familiar metal face as it contorts into focus. 

This time, however, it doesn’t ask for his purpose or name; it just scowls haughtily and swings the gates open with screeching hinges. 

Pleasantly surprised, Harry smiles sardonically at it. “Cheers, mate.” 

As he steps through the gate, a boreal tingling sensation rolls over his shoulders and down his back; the wards must be alerting Malfoy of his arrival. He hesitates for a moment, staring up at the long gravel drive in front of him. 

The Manor itself isn’t in full view, perched amidst the fog at the very top of the property and obscured by a sprawling network of trees and hedges. Should he wait for Malfoy to meet him? Should he keep walking? He isn’t sure exactly how welcome he is to just wander blindly around the grounds like a tourist, and he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries.

 _Spying is overstepping boundaries,_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing the bridge of his nose; he doesn’t need another morality crisis this early in the morning.

“Pardon?” 

Head darting up at the sound of a particularly crystal-cut accent, Harry’s face flushes as he spots Malfoy sauntering down the drive with an amused smirk playing at his pale lips. 

“Shit,” Harry says without thinking, spine shooting up straight as a metal rod. Malfoy’s arms are folded protectively against a gust of biting wind — and he’s wearing Muggle clothes again. Sweet Merlin. “Sorry,” he lurches out, one hand closing over the strap of his satchel so it will give him something to focus on that isn’t Malfoy’s pair of fitted trousers. “I was, er… thinking out loud.”

Malfoy’s head tilts, drawing Harry’s attention to his unusually long mop of platinum hair. It’s tucked behind his ears and cut just shy of his shoulders, probably long enough that it can be tied back. Harry has to stop himself from gaping; it’s strangely suiting, accentuating the rest of his pointiness in an almost elegant manner, unlike the short, greasy style he used to wear back in school. 

“Better to be thinking out loud than not thinking at all,” Malfoy says evenly, smirk unmoved. It sounds like something Luna would say. 

“You have a point,” Harry replies cautiously, mind racing as he pries his gaze away from the sleek blonde locks hair. One is jutting out and brushing Malfoy’s cheekbone so lightly that it must tickle. 

“I’m glad you think so.” He’s closer now, close enough that Harry can make out the softly knit pattern of his jade-green sweater. Then, his smirk falls away. “Did you walk all the way here?”

Harry blinks slowly. “No, I Apparated.”

“Ah.” Malfoy’s expression is almost friendly as he comes to a stop a couple of feet away from where Harry stands. And… he’s wearing black trainers. What the _fuck_. “My apologies, you just seem a little windswept and I assumed.”

“Oh.”

“So, shall we?”

Dazed by the comment and now absently scrubbing a hand through his apparently “windswept” hair, it takes a moment for Harry to figure out what he’s being asked. “What? Oh. Yes, yeah. Sure.”

“Good. Come along, then.” Malfoy unfolds his arms and motions for Harry to follow him back up the sloping, misty lane. Harry moves reluctantly, the simple task of lifting one foot after the other suddenly daunting. 

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to _bantering_ with Draco Malfoy. Long-haired, crewneck-clad Draco Malfoy. It’s bizarre and surreal and confusing and it makes him want to hit something. 

Where in Morgana’s tits was this Draco Malfoy five years ago? Ten years ago? Why does he show up now, of all times, smiling politely, apologizing, wearing fucking Chuck Taylors? Why now?

Instead of answering Harry’s unspoken question, Malfoy continues to walk leisurely up the drive, heels crunching in the gravel and hair fluttering in the sharp breeze. Steeling himself and swallowing the bitter feelings that have risen in his throat like bile, Harry follows, taking long strides to catch up with his counterpart’s slender legs.

The trees that line the lane are budding in brilliant arrays of orange and yellow, rustling and quivering gently above Harry’s head. Through their branches, he can catch glimpses of the looming manor house that’s situated at the end of the walk, pointy and gothic in every sense of the word.

“Are those peacocks?” he finds himself asking after a long moment of silence, eyes trailing on what looks to be a smattering of stark-white peacocks dotted across the rolling lawns. Some are sitting, nestled in patches of tall-bladed grass, while others strut importantly around trees and on top of hedges, their tail feathers pure and milky against the hazy backdrop.

“They are,” Malfoy confirms, voice light as his steps slow to match Harry’s pace. “They’ve been here for ages, even before the house was built. Mother says they’re magical, but I’ve never seen one do anything even remotely enchanting. Mostly they just eat the vegetation and scare off garden gnomes.”

 _Narcissa_. Harry remembers Malfoy’s mother sharply, with her sweeping blonde hair and regal posture. He wonders faintly if she still lives in the Manor, too, or if Malfoy’s been left all alone to tend to these endless acres of land. 

“Are they albino?” he inquires, stopping to watch one peacock shake it’s pure-white feathers decisively.

“No, actually.”

He glances back to raise an eyebrow. 

Malfoy smiles again, mild and affable. “I know. I thought they were too for a very long time. They have a recessive gene or something like that; a mutation. I believe it’s called Leucism.”

“Oh.” Harry looks back at the peacock. It’s got its head in the grass now, poking and plucking at something he can’t see. “I didn’t realize you were an expert.”

A laugh. “If only. I just did some research, that’s all.”

“On genetic mutation?”

“On magical white peacocks, you pillock.”

They share an odd look that ultimately results in Harry snorting and Malfoy’s smile cracking; Harry tries not to think about it too hard. They continue walking. 

“So, why are they here?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Malfoy admits, shrugging and keeping his gaze straight ahead. “They’re most likely bound to the land if they were here before anything was built. I don’t think they’re native, though. At least not to Wiltshire.”

“They’re just native to this property, then?”

“Something like that. I really don’t know, I’d have to do more research.”

“Right.” Harry kicks at a pebble near his foot as they walk, thoughts tangling in his head.

Malfoy glances furtively at him. “You aren’t here to talk about magical peacocks though, are you?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Harry spares him a look. It’s still weird, being all civil and friendly with Malfoy, but he’s starting to ease up; he might even be enjoying it a little. Nevertheless, part of his brain won’t stop shoving images of cruel schoolboy sneers and taunting laughter in front of his eyelids, forcing him to remember how much of a wanker Malfoy really is — was. 

“Let’s talk about your studies, then.” 

Harry blinks and drops his gaze. “My studies,” he echoes.

“That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

 _No._ “Yes.”

“Right.” Malfoy thoughtlessly runs a hand through his long hair, brushing it momentarily back from his face before it all comes tumbling back to graze his temples and frame his jaw. “So, what do you need to know?” 

“About the Manor?”

He gives Harry a pointed look: _obviously_ , his low-lids say. 

Harry cedes, “That’s a good question.”

“One that you have an answer to, I hope?”

“Er, yes.” He doesn’t, but he can make one up. Hermione has complimented him more than once on his ability to impetuously pull information out of his arse. “I need to know everything. When it was built, how it was built, who built it. That kind of stuff,” he says.

“Can't all that information be found in a textbook?” Malfoy needles, fine brow arching. “Forgive me, but I assumed you at least had some knowledge of the Manor’s history.”

“I do!” Harry counters, heat rising again as a stiletto of panic pokes him in the chest. “I do, I promise. It’s just… it’s different to study a place in person than from a book.” He pauses, reaching deep into the back of his head to grasp at something, anything, intellectual, even if his knowledge of manor houses is on the (extremely) thin side. “It puts everything in perspective,” he settles with, vague but earnest.

“I suppose it does.”

As they round a bend in the driveway, the behemoth house comes into full view, its sharp towers and slanted rooftops emerging nebulously from the fog. Harry sucks in a breath.

“There she is,” Malfoy says faintly, but Harry doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fastened to the house, its smooth arches and huge polished windows rendering him speechless. 

Dark, angry spindles wind up from the roof and stab the steel-grey sky like bolts of lightning. A large, detailed façade is set back just beyond a lengthy portico that gives way to a set of marble steps and a sleek array of columns. The sight is all too familiar for comfort, but still so magnificent and proud that it feels like a kick to the stomach. 

“It’s… impressive,” he finally says after managing to wrench his mouth closed, afraid he’ll attract flies if it’s open any longer. 

“It’s dreadful.”

He looks at Malfoy, startled. The blonde has his hands back in his pockets and is regarding the manor with oozing disinterest. When he gets no response, his cool eyes slide to meet Harry’s.

“Oh, I don’t mean to offend,” he starts, the corners of his mouth curving, “I know how you history berks hold these kinds of buildings close to your heart, but it’s all rather dramatic, isn’t it? All those useless spikes.”

It takes every ounce of strength in Harry’s bones to stop him from barking with incredulous laughter. _Aren’t_ you _rather dramatic?_ he wants to point out, but he holds back. “It is,” he allows, “But that doesn’t make it less impressive.” 

Malfoy hums a benign disagreement.

Harry persists. “It’s Elizabethan, right?”

“Yes, but it’s got some late Gothic characteristics. Aren’t you the scholar here?” 

An eye-roll. “So you keep saying.”

“Well, am I wrong? I’m the one being intruded on, not you. I’m allowed to clarify these things.”

Another pang of guilt thrums through his abdomen; he’s fully aware of the extent of the intrusion, even if Malfoy isn’t. “Are you always this difficult?” he asks to quench the feeling, turning so he’s facing the other man and stepping sideways against the breeze.

Malfoy gives him an impudent smile. “I try.”

They’re close to the entrance now, the shadows of the manor engulfing them as they approach the dazzling portico. A slight drizzle has picked up, too, brushing Harry’s red-tipped nose and cheeks with flurries of water and clinging retentively to the wool of his coat. Instead of responding to Malfoy, he straightens out and digs his ears and chin deeper into the warmth of his handmade scarf, smiling to himself once his lips are tucked out of view.

Malfoy shivers and re-crosses his arms, his thin sweater doing little to fight back the damp air. “Well, I was planning to give you a tour of the grounds before anything else, but I’m starting to think that isn’t a great idea,” he says, clipped accent still somewhat lighthearted as he eyes the rapidly-darkening sky. 

“No,” Harry agrees mildly as a particularly fat raindrop smacks the bridge of his nose.

“Do you fancy a cuppa, then?”

Once again, he’s startled by Malfoy’s words. “Sorry?” he asks, wondering if he misheard. 

His pitched voice earns him an odd look. “Tea,” Malfoy clarifies slowly as if he’s talking to a very young child. “Caffeine. Hot liquid in a mug.”

“Yes,” Harry blurts quickly to cut off any more chastising. “Yes, I’d like some. I mean— I wouldn’t mind.”

“Wonderful.” Malfoy’s tone is flat as he approaches the front steps of the portico, squinting and shielding his eyes from the spray. 

Harry follows at a reluctant pace, soles of his shoes squeaking against the slick alabaster floor. The rain has barely permeated his coat, yet he can feel a deep-seated chill settling into his bones as he ducks through the colonnade. Despite the lack of a real threat, there’s something sinister about the place; its windows are cold and unlit and the large oak doors at the end of the marble veranda are probably twice as tall as Hagrid, making Harry feel wildly insignificant compared to them.

It’s rather similar to how Malfoy makes him feel. Or, rather, how he used to make him feel. Everything about the manor is pristine and intentional, much like Malfoy, but there is a dark melancholy that seeps through the cracks and nips at Harry’s ankles, taunting and jeering with every step he takes. 

It’s discomforting, but he knows it’s on purpose. This is, after all, the Malfoy way; to lure their victims in with their pride and prominence, then dismantle them piece by piece as they get closer. And by the time they make it inside, they know little more than their own name, too caught up in the grandeur of it all to remember why they got close in the first place. 

Or maybe not. Maybe Harry’s just being melodramatic and it’s just a big, scary house. 

Then, all of a sudden, the chill in his bones is replaced with an enveloping warmth, cracking like an egg at the crown of his head and rippling down his spine, heating his skin and curling his toes. 

“What—” he starts, looking up from where his eyes have been pinned to the floor. To his astonishment, Malfoy has his wand out and is pointing it directly at Harry, his other hand curled around the handle of the front door. But there’s no malice in his face, no vengefulness. Just… indifference. 

“There’s no need to look like I’m about to murder you, Mr. Rivers,” he says after catching Harry’s expression and managing to look even more unimpressed. “It’s just a Drying Charm, I promise. My assassin days are far behind me.”

And _oh_ , that’s far too close a statement to why Harry’s actually here. He wants to dig a hole in the ground and bury his head in it like some terrified ostrich because he can’t do this, he can’t. 

_Thanks,_ he means to say, because now he’s warm and dry and tingling pleasantly all over and he really should say thank you, but what comes out instead is, “You didn’t murder anyone.”

Malfoy immediately crystallizes into stone, his body freezing in the middle of opening the huge oak door. “No,” he agrees, but it’s low and icy, much like his gaze. “Quite an astute observation. No wonder the Department of Education sent you and not someone significantly less perceptive. A good move on their behalf, I dare say.”

“No, wait, that’s not—” Harry fumbles, trying to find his mental footing as Malfoy’s expression grows colder and colder. “That’s not what I meant, I swear. I just meant that you don’t— er, you didn’t… I’m… I’m on your side.” 

“You’re on my _side_ ,” Malfoy hisses, releasing the door and letting it slam back into place. Harry’s heart drops. Malfoy whirls on him, eyes blazing with brand new ferocity. “And what side is that, exactly? The Dark Side? The side with all the Death Eaters and murderers and, apparently, _not_ -murderers? That side?”

“No!” Harry exclaims, stepping back and putting his hands up defensively. “No, that’s not what I mean at all, Christ.”

Malfoy’s nose scrunches momentarily at the noticeably Muggle curse. “Then please,” he continues, seething, “Enlighten me as to what _my side_ is and why exactly you’re on it.”

“I just meant that I don’t agree with the Ministry,” Harry answers cautiously, slowly dropping his hands. “I’m… I think they’re treating you unfairly. That’s all.”

It’s not a lie. He does think that Malfoy’s been treated unfairly, even despite the fact that he'd managed to wriggle out of a sentence (partially thanks to Harry’s testimony, but still.) Instead, he'd received a punishment that Harry almost thinks is worse than a prison cell; he lost his ability to use magic for an entire year, and was awarded such a distinct black mark on his record that it barred him from getting almost any unionized job within magical boundaries. And it was designed that way — to restrict Malfoy’s ability to contribute to the wizarding world by so much that it practically reduced him to nothing.

Maybe Harry from five years ago would agree wholeheartedly with the restrictions, but Harry from right now knows how screwed up it all was. How they’d all been kids, doing what was best for their own safety, seeking guidance in anyone and anything they could. 

Malfoy was no different — even if he was an insufferable wanker at the time. 

“I’m not in Azkaban, in case you haven’t noticed. That’s quite fair enough.” 

Malfoy’s eyes have dulled, but his knuckles are still bruising white as they curl at his sides. Harry imagines the bite of his nails digging into his palms.

“It’s not, and you know it,” he replies. “That shouldn’t be the standard.”

Malfoy blinks, rigidity slipping even more. “No, it shouldn’t. But it is, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it, so I suggest we drop the topic entirely before you go and say something else you don’t mean.”

It stings, but Harry knows he’s hit a sore spot. He nods. “Alright, fine.”

“Fine.” Malfoys unclenches, setting his shoulders and turning back to the doors once more. 

Harry steels himself quietly as Malfoy takes the handle and wrenches the giant door back open, a blast of warm air crashing against both of them. He takes a breath. “Thank you, by the way.”

Malfoy glances back, brow pinched. “For what?”

“The Drying Charm. It, er, felt nice.”

“Oh.” He looks away. “It was more for my sake than yours. Gimly would hex me if anyone tracked water into the house.” 

“Gimly?”

“My house elf.”

“Ah.”

Instead of stepping over the wide threshold, Malfoy moves back and holds the heavy door for Harry. “After you,” he drawls, brandishing an arm unenthusiastically.

Harry finds himself gripping the strap of his satchel again as he ducks his head and mutters an awkward “thanks” before slipping past. 

The inside of the manor is exceptionally less harrowing than the outside, something he doesn’t recall from his last visit whatsoever. The foyer is lit by a row of warm glass bulbs suspended in the air around the perimeter of the high ceiling, pulsating softly with an orange-yellow glow and making up for the lack of natural light; straight ahead, the same bulbs bob down a long, carpeted hallway. 

“This way,” he hears Malfoy say, his timbre bouncing off the nearly-empty stone walls. “You still want tea, yes?”

“If it’s not any trouble.”

“It’s not.” Malfoy’s fingers snap twice, followed closely by a sharp crack and the appearance of a well-dressed house elf. Immediately, Harry can tell that she’s on the younger side, with fewer wrinkles than normal and long, perky ears; a silky blue pillowcase is tailored and cinched around her middle, further accentuating her youthful complexion and bright irises.

“Lord Malfoy is summoning Gimly?” the elf squeaks in question.

Harry watches quietly as Malfoy’s features soften in the low light. “Yes,” he says, all leftover hostility dissolving from his voice. “I’d like some tea prepared for me and my guest. Are you busy?”

The elf’s eyes slide past Malfoy and land on Harry, lighting up at the mere sight of him. 

“Oh, good sir, welcome!” she cries happily. “It is being far too long since Lord Malfoy is having guests! Gimly is never too busy for guests!”

Harry isn’t strong enough to fight back a smile at the elf’s buoyant words. “Hi there, Gimly.”

She squeals again, light and childlike, darting through Malfoy’s long legs and addressing Harry directly. “How is sir taking his tea? Lord Malfoy takes his with three sugars, but Gimly is thinking three is far too much.”

Amused, Harry steals a look at Malfoy. “Yeah,” he agrees, meeting the blonde’s sharp gaze and grinning. “Three is a lot. I’ll just take mine with milk, thanks.”

“Of course, sir! Gimly will be having it out right away!”

“Nicholas,” Harry corrects. At her confused look, he relaxes his smile. “Just call me Nicholas. I’m no ‘sir’.”

“Oh, Gimly disagrees,” she says seriously, eyes bugging and spindly fingers twining together. “But she will respect sir— Nicholas’ wishes.”

“Thank you,” he replies gently.

“Off you go, Gims,” Malfoy pipes up, dismissing her as he walks towards the hall. “We’ll be taking it in the lounge.”

“Yes, Lord Malfoy!” She Disapparates without another word, leaving behind an echoing crack and a vacuum of bubbliness. Harry thinks briefly of Dobby and his similar overbearing enthusiasm to please, but knowing it will just dampen his mood for the rest of the day, he pushes the thought out. 

“She seems nice,” he says conversationally.

“She is,” Malfoy replies shortly, turning to leave. “Come on, the lounge is through here.” 

Harry obliges and follows him down the portrait-flanked hallway, its low lighting casting ominous shadows across the countless pale faces of Malfoy’s ancestors. Some of their carefully-painted eyes trail on Harry closely, murmuring to themselves and their neighbors as he moves past. 

“Your portraits are creepy,” he voices after a long, eerie moment, earning a callous frown from an old woman with sagging cheekbones as he walks by her. 

“Believe me, I’m aware,” Malfoy says, a few steps in front. He looks over his shoulder, grey eyes glinting under the light of a passing bulb. “Try growing up with them.”

“I’ll pass.”

A shaky voice calls from somewhere above their heads, “We can hear you, you know!”

“I know, Uncle Arcturus,” Malfoy responds wearily, not even bothering to seek out the portrait. “Take it as a compliment if you’re going to complain.”

“Ungrateful little Draco,” another voice scolds, feminine and posh. “Speaking ill of the dead! Have you no respect for your elders, young man?”

A wry smile. “None at all, dear Violet.”

A flurry of offended whispers chorus throughout the hall, hissing disapprovingly at Malfoy’s words, but he pays them no mind. He stops abruptly in front of a pair of arched double-doors, almost causing Harry to rear-end him, and flings them open with a slight flick of his wrist. 

Natural grey light pours into the hallway from the room beyond where large, diamond-paneled windows and a cluster of comfortable-looking sofas and armchairs are arranged into a sitting room. Flourishing potted plants drape theatrically in front of the windows, cradled in long braided hangers and floating in twine baskets near the windowsills; a fire is already blazing in the behemoth hearth that takes up practically an entire wall, filling the space with the scent of smoke and raw cedar. 

“This is my favorite room,” Malfoy declares as he strides inside and runs a long, pale finger across the back of a velveteen sofa. He pauses; “Actually, maybe not. The conservatory is rather beautiful, too. Would you care to see it at some point?”

“Sure,” Harry says moderately, trailing hesitantly after him and craning his neck to take in the room. Crowded floor-to-ceiling bookshelves conceal most of the walls while heavy, dark red curtains border the windows; framed photographs and intricate paintings take up the rest of the space, crowding the room and making it feel smaller—more intimate— than reality. It’s as beautiful and ornate as the rest of the house, yes, but so uncharacteristically cozy that he wonders for a moment if they’ve left the Manor and teleported to one of the common rooms at Hogwarts. 

For conformation, he approaches one of the windows and peers through the rain-streaked glass into the backyard. Lawns just as luscious as the ones in front sprawl before his eyes, dotted with trees and patches of overgrown flower beds; in the distance, tall green hedges loom behind the treetops, twisting into a flourishing garden maze that ascends into the hillside.

Yep, still in the Manor.

Malfoy sits back in a plush burgundy armchair facing the hearth, looking suspiciously at ease given that he’s just been bombarded with a hundred different old-fashioned insults by his ancestors. Nevertheless, he remains collected, watching sidelong as Harry gradually draws away from the window and pops up on his toes to get a closer look at one of the potted plants. 

“Careful,” he says, “That one bites if you disturb it.”

“What kind is it?”

“Fanged Geranium. It’s a nasty bugger — surely Professor Sprout taught you about them?”

“Probably, but Herbology wasn’t really my forte,” he admits, and it’s not a lie. If he could hate Herbology, so could Nicholas Rivers. He idly pokes the hanging pot with his pointer finger and watches it sway gently; the plant growls sleepily, leaves ruffling. 

“Wasn’t mine either, but I did pay attention every once in a while. My mother loved it when she was at school; most of these plants were hers.”

“Were?” He looks up, chest restricting. The past tense is never an indicator of good.

Malfoy lets out a faint but exasperated sigh. “Save your condolences, please, she's not dead. But she doesn’t live here anymore, so I’m stuck taking care of all her vegetation. It’s rather annoying, some days. She’s given them all pet names and they get angry when I mix them up.”

“Seriously?”

“Indeed. I believe the one you’re provoking is called Daryll.” 

“I’m not provoking anything,” Harry retorts as he pokes the pot again. “Hello, Daryll.” 

There’s another growl, loud enough this time to make the ceramic holder vibrate dangerously. The green foliage trembles; its leaves are spiked with pink and red veins that meet in the center where a pointy blossom sits, blade-shaped and menacing. Its petals are pulsing rhythmically, opening and closing in response to the motion of the pot. Wary, albeit amused, Harry takes a step back and lifts his palms in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, I get it. Nice meeting you, mate.”

“Told you,” Malfoy mutters from his armchair. 

Harry rolls his eyes after prying them away from the Geranium and stilling the pot with his hand, then crosses the dark wood floorboards and descends ungracefully onto one of the cushy-looking sofas across from the fireplace. Malfoy’s gaze is on him the whole time, acute and haughty, watching as Harry situates somewhat stiffly on the edge of the cushions, not permitting himself to relax just yet.

He meets Malfoy’s eyes and tries not to squirm. When neither of them says anything, he looks away and focuses on the crackling fire instead. 

“It’s lovely in here,” he voices without really meaning to after a drawn-out pause, watching the flames as they lick delicately at the rusted grate. 

Malfoy hums. “Yes. It wasn’t always, though. We redecorated a few years ago.”

He doesn’t say _after the war_ , but he doesn’t need to. 

“Right,” Harry nods absently, propping his elbows on his knees. “Well, it’s nice.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy says, and it sounds sincere. Or, as sincere as it can be, given that it’s coming from Malfoy.

Suddenly breaking the odd, slightly awkward atmosphere, Gimly reappears with a platter of tea and biscuits balanced on one her bony hand like a maitre d’. 

“Refreshments for Lord Malfoy and sir Nicholas!” she announces, setting it down on the low table in front of the hearth. 

“Nicholas, please,” Harry corrects automatically, the name still sounding heavy and strange on his tongue. “No ‘sir’. Just Nicholas.”

Her eyes widen, timid and glossy. “Refreshments for Lord Malfoy and just Nicholas,” she repeats, slower.

It’s not much better, but he’ll take it.

“Thank you, Gimly,” Malfoy cuts in, his tone noticeably lighter as he leans forward and plucks an expensive-looking teacup off the platter. “Just Nicholas and I will be spending the day touring the house, but we should be done before lunch if the rain loosens up. Has the conservatory been opened for viewing?” 

“Yes, sir! Gimly opened it this morning,” she states proudly, her little chest puffing under the shiny fabric of her dress. 

Malfoy nods peaceably. “In that case, you’re dismissed for the rest of the day. Feel free to take an outing, if you’d like.” 

She blanches slightly at this, chest deflating. “But, what is Lord Malfoy wanting for dinner? Surely Gimly can begin cooking now!” 

Astonishingly, Malfoy turns her down, lips quirking behind the rim of his cup. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve worked hard all day; please, go and get some rest. I insist.” 

Harry thinks he’s misheard — is Malfoy seriously giving his house-elf a day off? Dobby’s pointy face pops into his head again, and his heart squeezes at the memory of the elf's trembling fingers and quivering voice, a victim of abuse at the hands of Malfoy’s father. 

Malfoy’s recently deceased father, that is. 

When Gimly opens her mouth to protest further, Malfoy stops her again with a kind — _kind_ — smile. While it’s completely unnatural and strained on his narrow, baroque features, it’s authentic enough to leave Harry wondering if he’s hallucinating. Perhaps the Polyjuice he took earlier had been laced with something, and he isn’t actually sitting in Malfoy Manor across from a long-haired, Muggle-clothed, compassionate Draco Malfoy. No, he’s probably passed out on the floor of his temporary flat, eyes rolled into the back of his head while his half-empty flask lies next to him, open and leaking Polyjuice onto the thick Persian carpet, head running amuck with delusions of Malfoy smiling. 

“Don’t make me order you,” he continues, but there’s no chagrin in his voice. It’s plain, flaccid, friendly, everything that Malfoy isn’t. It’s _weird_.

There’s a squeak of something apologetic and a crackle of magic as Gimly disappears again, leaving Harry to gawk at Malfoy like he’s grown another head. And maybe he has; maybe he’s grown a nicer, more agreeable head, and his normal, irritable one is hidden under a heavy Disillusionment Charm. 

_And maybe it should stay there,_ Harry thinks, swallowing his disbelief and tightening his shoulders as Malfoy looks back at him. Some of the pleasantness has seeped out again, apparently reserved for house-elves only, but he’s still at ease, ankles crossed in front of him and hair falling over his eyes. He cocks his head.

“Do you plan on drinking that, or do I need to call her back?”

His tea. Right. “Um, no. I mean— yes. Yes, I’m drinking it,” he stumbles over his words, mouth tasting like cotton. He reaches for his own cup and shivers as a static current of leftover elf magic shoots through his fingertips.

If Malfoy is amused at all by his inability to speak basic English he hides it behind a languid sip of tea, head tipping back and exposing a strip of his pale cervix. Harry pulls his eyes away and follows suit, the perfectly-brewed caffeine sliding hot and pleasant down the back of his throat, warming his cheeks and letting him forget momentarily about the absurdity of this whole thing. 

If Bates were here, she would have completely secured the perimeter and set up all the approved diagnostic charms by now; she probably would’ve charmed Malfoy in the process, too, what with her easy smile and ability to keep up with sharp-witted conversations. Instead, Harry’s here, making stupid small talk about violent plants and albino peacocks with his school bully while she sits in her office back at the Ministry, leather-clad feet probably kicked up on her desk. Granted, she does have the harder part of the job — filling out paperwork and tracking Harry’s every move to make sure he doesn’t blow the case (or himself) up — but he envies her anyway. If their positions were switched, he wouldn’t have to track her every move; she’s too smart to blow anything up on duty.

She’s too smart to be an Unspeakable, honestly, at least an undercover one; her talents would probably be better off in the Time Chamber or the Thought Chamber with all the other iron-toed geniuses. Or perhaps, like Hermione, politics would suit her better — Merlin knows her blunt honesty would do wonders for the current administration.

Alas, she’s stuck with Harry; the most uncoordinated, ungraceful Unspeakable in the entire department. A title she consistently reminds him of.

“So,” Malfoy says after setting his cup back down onto the coffee table, expression smooth and unreadable. “When were you born, Nicholas Rivers?”

Harry chokes on his tea. She’s not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! keep in mind that this is an unbeta'd WIP, so all mistakes/mishaps are my own. feedback is endlessly encouraged and appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Malfoy Manor is fucking huge. 

This isn’t necessarily news to Harry; he always knew it was big — bigger than any family home he’d ever been to, let alone a family of three — but he had no idea that it was _this_ big. 

After wringing Harry dry with his never-ending stream of questions about Nicholas Rivers, covering everything from where he grew up to his all-time favorite color, the wanker, Malfoy banishes their empty teacups and proceeds to take Harry on the world’s longest house tour. 

Harry recognizes most of the ground floor, with its grand spiral staircases and arched ceilings, but everything is so much lighter and tastefully decorated that it feels like an entirely different house to the one Voldemort had taken charge of. There are three drawing rooms, all with different shades of stained wood and color schemes, and one large dining hall with a table so meticulously polished that Harry can see his reflection in it. There are also two kitchens — a large one in the basement, meant specifically for house-elves, and another more modest one that connects to the dining hall.

“I use this one more often,” Malfoy says as he leans against a countertop, the blue and white crockery lining the shelves starkly clashing with his dark clothing. “Gimly hates me for it, but one person simply does not need four ovens.”

“No,” Harry agrees, drawing a blank as he tries to picture Malfoy cooking real food in a real kitchen. It doesn’t work.

The conservatory is stunning, just like Malfoy claimed it would be; it’s dome-shaped and overflowing with plants of every species, some of which reach out to grab at Harry’s ankles as he walks through. The air is fresh and somewhat humid, but the temperature ebbs and flows from one end of the room to the other.

“We use self-regulating temperature charms that adjust to the plants’ needs,” Malfoy says, answering Harry’s unspoken question of how the room works. “Some of these have been alive for over a hundred years, actually, all because of the changing biosphere. My great-grandmother worked alongside the Sprout family to engineer a collection of greenhouse charms, and we replicated them here. They’re tetchy things and I have to rework them at least twice a year, but they do the job.”

“Your family worked with the Sprouts?” Harry asks, failing to hide his surprise. 

He’s rewarded a strange look. “Of course. They’re only the most renowned herbologists in all of Britain. We’ve been allied with them for centuries.”

“Allied?”

Malfoy’s steps slow, brows pinched as he gives Harry a perplexed stare. “You’re not a muggle-born, are you?” he asks bluntly.

The question stops Harry in his tracks. This could be a dangerous conversation. “Um,” he hesitates, shoulders tense. He really doesn’t want to deal with Malfoy's prejudices today — or ever. Of course, he’s always ready to fight on behalf of muggle-borns, but that doesn’t make the task any less exhausting. “Half-blood.”

Something changes in Malfoy’s expression. “Ah. That makes sense.”

What? “What do you mean?”

“I mean it makes sense that you wouldn’t know about family alliances. Pureblood family alliances, that is. They’re not really talked about much these days, especially since feudalism went out of fashion.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Wizards had a feudal system?”

Malfoy looks away and scoffs indignantly, a familiar sound. “Obviously. Everyone did. I’ve heard it was all the rage in the Middle Ages.”

“But we don’t have a military,” Harry points out. “And we don’t have royalty. How would a feudal system work without those?”

“Oh, it’s rather simple. I’m surprised you don’t know about it given your degree in magical history,” Malfoy says, his back facing Harry as he leans over a planter to prod at the leaves of a bright orange fern.

“ _Architectural_ history,” Harry corrects sorely, resisting the urge to fold his arms and jut his hip like a teenager even though he knows fuck-all about architecture. 

“Right, because that’s so removed from actual history.” Malfoy rolls his eyes, but not maliciously. He seems more entertained by Harry’s annoyance than anything else. “The wizarding feudal system was set up as an exchange of land for magical protection,” he explains. “Instead of serving in a military, tenants would cede their magic to their Lord or Lady and would live under their protection until they died or rebelled against their contract.”

“They would give up their magic?!” Harry splutters, baffled.

Malfoy straightens back up and brushes his hands together, casting bits of soil off his fingers. “In a way. They would attach it to a Lord or Lady’s name to give them access to more power. Tenants could still use that magic themselves, but it was technically given up to a family name in order to fuel a protective bond and ensure their security. There’s a reason the Sacred Twenty-Eight exist; they were the original holders of magical land, but they were given power and influence because of all the magic that was ceded to them.”

“So… Lords would take people’s magic and add it to a pool of family magic? For protection?”

“Yes, exactly. For self-preservation and protection of all of their tenants. And in exchange for that extra power, tenants got to live on magically designated lands. It was purely symbiotic, I assure you.” 

Harry’s brow furrows, not quite understanding. “But, what about alliances? You said your family was allied with the Sprouts. The Sprouts aren’t Sacred, are they?”

“No, but they’ve heavily intermarried with the Fawley family, so they’re just as powerful,” Malfoy replies easily. “Alliances were made for insurance purposes. If a Lord’s estate was threatened by another powerful family, allies would help protect their tenants and fight alongside them if it came down to war.” He pauses. “There were a lot of wars.”

“And your family chose the Sprouts as allies? Even though they weren’t sacred?”

“Indeed. You’d be surprised how handy Herbology can be during wartime.”

Harry frowns a little. He gets it, but not really; why were they never taught this stuff at Hogwarts? “Wizard feudalism sounds much nicer than Muggle feudalism.” 

“Well, Muggles are strange creatures. But I’m sure whatever version they had in place seemed perfectly reasonable to them at the time.” Malfoy shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly. He can’t tell if there’s any true bigotry packed in there; Muggles _are_ strange, after all. “Wizards are strange, too, though.”

“I never said they weren’t," Malfoy says, lifting his chin and pinning Harry with a look he can't decipher. "Would you like to see the library?”

* * *

They go see the library. 

It’s on the second floor along with nine ( _nine_ ) bedrooms, including three masters and seven en suites, all of which are furnished and cleaned as if they’re being lived in. The library has two levels, but the second level is merely made up of a railed terrace that runs parallel to the built-in bookcases. Malfoy explains offhand that the second level is the so-called “Restricted Section”, as he was never allowed up there when he was younger. 

“Why would your parents restrict you from reading?” Harry asks as they climb one of the enchanted staircases. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy tosses over his shoulder. “They didn’t restrict me from reading entirely — only from reading things like this.” He flicks his wand and a thick leather-bound book slides out from one of the top shelves and slams into Harry’s torso, almost knocking him down the stairs. 

He grunts, peeling it off his chest to squint down at the cover. “ _The Salacious Sins of Samara Serpentia_ ,” he reads out loud, nose scrunching. 

“Open it.”

He opens it, then freezes. “Wait, is this—”

“Yes.” Malfoy smirks, roguish, and sly as he leans back against the railing and props himself on his elbows. “Yes, it is. From my mother’s collection.”

Harry says nothing as he slams the book closed, mortified, blushing like a bashful first year, and wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground. 

Malfoy laughs. Well, laugh is a generous term; it’s more of a glorified huff of air that he blows out through his nose, but it counts nonetheless. Saving Harry from any more embarrassment, he jerks his wand again and makes the book slot back into place before pushing away from the railing and continuing deeper into the library. 

Harry follows idly, too busy trying to figure out how plausible it would be to Obliviate himself and banish all thoughts of Narcissa Malfoy’s steamy literature collection to really pay attention to where he’s going. 

Malfoy continues to take him from room to room, chatting incessantly about each one, only letting Harry squeeze in a comment every few minutes. But he’s okay with that; he’d much rather let Malfoy do the talking than risk being subjected to more of his nagging questions about Nicholas. 

Eventually, they make it to level three — the top level — and emerge from a grandiose stairwell onto a flat, open balcony that’s bordered by sloping rooftops and spiraling observatory towers. The wind blasts into them and whips their hair around their faces as they squint in the bright grey light of the early afternoon, the sun a muted bulb behind a blockade of clouds. 

Harry draws near to the edge of the balcony, hands curling around the stone barrier as he peers beyond the shingled roof and out onto the far-reaching, well-manicured grounds of the Manor. He inhales sharply when he spots the tiny outline of Tisbury way in the distance, feeble and unassuming among the rolling hills. He smiles as he tugs his sleeves down over his reddening knuckles.

“You can see the town from here.”

Malfoy moves to stand next to him, his arms wrapped around each other. “You can,” he confirms, nodding slightly.

Harry determinedly doesn’t look at him or the way his cheeks turn a light shade of pink as the wind batters them relentlessly. “It’s very beautiful,” he says.

“It is.”

Malfoy doesn’t seem to have a story for this part of the Manor. For every other room and hallway they’d been down, he’d had a narrative, an anecdote, something to fill the space and light it up. But this time, he has nothing. 

They stand there for a long while, forearms digging into the banister as they fix their gazes somewhere in the distance. For a moment, all Harry can focus on is the burnt smell of the autumn air, the feeling of stone beneath his hands and feet, the warmth that radiates from Malfoy’s body next to him. 

For a moment, he forgets. 

And then remembers he’s not allowed to do that.

He moves away from the barrier and crosses the balcony to the other side, ignoring Malfoy’s watchful eyes as he bends forward to peer into the backyard. His heartbeat is louder than normal and he doesn’t know why; he ignores that, too.

“What’s that?” he asks after a beat, squinting at what looks to be a small, dilapidated building situated beyond the gardens and nestled between a cluster of sycamore trees. 

Malfoy appears at his side again, but this time he angles himself further away so that Harry can’t feel his heat anymore. “That’s my workshop.”

Fucking _jackpot_. “Your workshop?” 

Malfoy glances at him. “That’s what I said.”

On a whim, Harry decides to reach into the backrooms of his brain where he keeps the acting techniques he’d been forced to master during Unspeakable training. “What do you need a workshop for?” he asks, pitching his voice so he sounds intrigued. Bates would be proud. 

Malfoy seems to fall for it, his expression remaining steady. “I sell antiques. Or, I collect and fix them, and then sell them.”

Harry purses his mouth into an ‘O’ shape despite already knowing this, leaning closer and squinting at the shed inquisitively. “And that’s where you work?”

A curt nod.

“May I see it?”

There’s a long pause where Malfoy doesn’t look at him, cheeks melting from light pink to red. Whether it’s from the wind or from something else Harry doesn’t know. “I don’t see why not,” he says finally, breaking the spell and turning back towards the stairwell. 

When Harry doesn’t immediately follow him, he looks over his shoulder. 

“Are you coming?”

Harry blinks, then smiles. “Right behind you.”

* * *

The workshop is, unsurprisingly, bigger on the inside. 

The outside looks almost nothing like the manor; it’s small and squat, hunkered down in the grass like a grazing animal, with circular walls and a roof so sloped that it almost looks like one of Professor McGonagall’s pointy hats. Malfoy unlocks the door with a wandless _Alohomora_ and opens it tentatively, hinges squeaking in protest to the cold weather. He doesn’t hold it for Harry this time, ducking evasively inside without so much as a “Come in.” 

Harry steps after him anyway, and it takes several long seconds for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness; the corroded smell of sandalwood and varnish weighs in the air like fog, muddled slightly with the gush of wind that follows him in. The windows, though tinted, are shuttered from the inside with blinds, mottling the cobbled floors with patterns of delicate grey light. Instead of opening them, Malfoy sets the tip of his wand ablaze and sends several streams of light into an assortment of lamps and sconces, lighting up the room a hazy orange.

“Well,” Malfoy says flatly, turning from his place in the center of the cylindrical room. “Here it is.” 

“Here it is,” Harry repeats absently, feet glued to the threshold as he takes in the newly illuminated space.

It’s _much_ larger on the inside, a high-vaulted ceiling giving way to rows and rows of curved shelving units, all of which run in an orchestrated semi-circle around a spacious, honey-colored work table. At first glance, the shelves seem haphazard and disorganized, cluttered with countless pieces of furniture and glassware, but Harry can tell as he unconsciously moves closer that there’s a system in place. He’s not surprised — Malfoy doesn’t seem like someone who’d willingly let things stay unorganized. Across from the shelves pushed against another section of the wall, a couple of unlit furnaces with bulky fume hoods squat next to each other; parallel to them is a counter, complete with a deep sink and a polished cauldron kit. 

“Wow,” he breathes, stopping in front of a particularly crowded shelf and bending his neck to get a closer look at the objects that line it. Several (Muggle?) record players and gramophones are stacked next to each other, ancient-looking and collecting dust. Above them, odd-shaped, mahogany-stained clocks sit in docile silence, their hands unmoving. “You can fix all of these?”

From somewhere behind him, Harry hears the sound of a chair scraping against the stone floor. “I can certainly try.”

He moves towards another shelf, this one strewed with elaborately-framed mirrors and stained-glass vases. “Are they all Muggle?”

“Merlin, no,” Malfoy responds immediately, sounding emphatic. “Most pieces were either made with magic or enchanted after they were made.”

“But some aren’t?”

“No, some aren’t. But I do try to collect more magical items than not — Muggle refurbishings are horribly tedious, and I don’t usually have the time for them unless I’m being commissioned.”

Harry looks up, peering at the other man over a stack of gilded dining chairs. “You do commissions?”

Malfoy is leaning on the edge of his work table, arms crossed in feigned nonchalance. Clearly, he’s uncomfortable with Harry being here, but not quite uncomfortable enough to make him leave. “Occasionally.”

Harry hums noncommittally in response, running his finger along the edge of a sanded shelf as he rounds it. 

He’s obviously found the place he needs to be in terms of the investigation — Head Auror Robards had stated in his initial report that if Malfoy’s name was involved in the case at all, Dark artifacts would most certainly be, too. And if that’s true, then they must be somewhere around here, in this overflowing mecca of bronze and chestnut. Even if Harry knows they aren’t.

Malfoy’s antique business is somewhat well-known in the wizarding community — its name has made the back pages of the _Prophet’s_ Arts and Culture section more than once — so there’s nothing out of the ordinary about a witch purchasing an item from him and taking home one of his cards. Even if she did end up dead less than a week later. There’s no connection, no link that proves that her death happened at the hands of some cursed artifact, no point A and point B.

Still. 

Harry has a job to do, and if his job is to look for any signs of Dark magic in the items that Malfoy is restoring and selling, then he’s going to do just that. Even if he knows that nothing will come from it. 

Even if.

“Do you have a shop?” He emerges from the tangle of shelves and meets Malfoy’s gaze once more; his pale features almost seem less severe in the tawny light, giving him the illusion of approachableness. 

“I do.” Malfoy’s chin lifts. “There’s a small storefront down in town that the locals use, but it’s connected through the back to the actual store in Diagon Alley.”

Harry knows this; it was one of the first things he’d learned from the thin case file he and Bates had been given. He’s never been into the shop on Diagon, Polyjuiced or not, and he never planned on it prior to the investigation. But now… 

“In town?” he asks curiously, propping himself against a small, intricately-carved chest of drawers. 

Malfoy nods. “Tisbury. Not far from your address, actually.”

“Is it Plottable?”

“Partially. The first floor is open to Muggles, but the basement is under a Fidelius charm, where we keep all the enchanted pieces.”

“Oh,” Harry says, mildly taken aback at the word ‘we’. “I don’t think I’ve been. What’s it called?”

“Atlantis Antiques.”

Harry files the name away in his head to use later. “Clever.” 

Malfoy’s fine brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Harry cocks his head, a bit of his fringe falling into his eyes. The straightness of his new hair startles him, but he takes care not to let it show on his face. “Atlantis,” he repeats, shaking the strands away and giving Malfoy a pointed look. “The Lost City? Ring a bell?” 

Malfoy frowns. “Of course it does. I don’t live under a rock.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

He makes an odd face, arms unfolding as he scratches the tip of his nose with his thumbnail. “I suppose the name is clever when you look at it that way, although I've never understood why Muggles call it the ‘Lost City’. Who in the world came up with that?”

“Um." Harry falters. "Plato, I think?”

“Ah, right," Malfoy nods, a knowing look passing over his face. "That horrid muggle philosophe.”

“I don’t think ‘horrid’ is one of his usual descriptors, but sure.”

“It should be,” he snorts. “It’s quite horrid to mislead an entire species into thinking Atlantis is lost. It's very much alive and well, last I checked.”

Harry blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Atlantis,” Malfoy repeats. He re-folds his cashmere-clad arms. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been?”

Harry straightens, the chest of drawers rattling as he pushes off them. “You _have?_ ”

“Well, obviously. Where do you think I got those?” Malfoy jerks his angular chin at a shelf behind Harry, prompting him to spin around and gape at a collection of engraved red-figure vases, all of which are decorated with small, unmoving pictographs.

“Those are—” Harry chokes on his own words as he moves closer, craning his neck to peer up at the high shelf, “—those are from Atlantis? The fucking ancient civilization that doesn’t exist?”

“What on Earth are you on about?” Malfoy asks, bewildered. “Of course Atlantis exists. I visit once a year, at least. Sometimes twice if I’m doing business in North Africa. My next trip to Morocco isn’t for a few months, but I was planning to stop there on the way and pick up some new artifacts — restored Atlantean pottery is one of my bestsellers. Hence the name.”

“You—” Harry stutters, mouth abruptly feeling like cotton for absolutely no reason. Malfoy’s been to Atlantis? And Africa? On _business_? “I thought Atlantis was a myth!”

At this, Malfoy’s eyes bulge. “Merlin and Morgana both. Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m bloody serious!” Harry exclaims. “I thought it was an allegory that Plato made up so he could… er… end wars and stuff.”

Malfoy casts him possibly the most flabbergasted look Harry’s ever seen. “Did I not establish already that Plato was a horrid philosopher? Really, Mr. Rivers, your lack of basic historical knowledge astounds me. Are you sure the Ministry sent the right wizard?”

Fuck.

“Yes! Yes, I’m sure. I just…” Harry trails off, scrambling to find something to say now that his entire worldview has been altered. Maybe he does need to brush up on his history. “I didn’t know.”

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, I gathered as much.”

Harry shoots him a fleeting glare, but reigns it in when he remembers he’s supposed to be getting on the infuriating git’s good side. “Sorry,” he says stiffly, turning away from the shelves and pulling restlessly at the strap of his satchel, trying hard to think of a subject change so he can’t embarrass himself any further. “You— um, do you travel a lot? For business?”

“I do.”

“To where? Other than Atlantis, I mean.” Not like that’s a big deal or anything. Definitely not. (Merlin’s balls, fucking _Atlantis?_ )

“Everywhere,” Malfoy replies, jaw slackening at the safer topic but eyes remaining stark and suspicious. “I’m usually out of the country more than not. You’ve caught me at a rather good time.”

 _Yeah, probably on purpose,_ Harry thinks. Out loud, he says, “Really?”

“Indeed.”

“Define everywhere,” he pushes. He hadn’t realized that Malfoy traveled so regularly on business, let alone that he’d left the country in the past five years; the case file clearly wasn’t thorough enough.

“Anywhere you can think of, I’ve probably been,” Malfoy says, settling back onto his desk and crossing his ankles like he had back in the lounge. “Every country, I mean. I’m still working on hitting all the cities and states, but I’ve been to every landmass and approximately every country.”

Harry feels his jaw go slack. “How in the world did you manage that?”

Another shrug. “Portkeys, mostly, since the Floo system is a primarily European method of transportation. I did take a few magic carpets, though. They were surprisingly cheap.”

“No, I mean…” Harry opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to find his words. _Magic carpets?_ “I mean, how did you have time to do all that? I barely have enough time to sleep in on my days off.”

“Time is simply one of the perks of self-employment. And I wasn’t traveling on my ‘days off’ — I was working the entire time. I wouldn’t stay in one place for very long, either; just long enough to visit a few local markets and expand my inventory.”

“So, you’d buy magical artifacts from other countries to resell here?” Harry clarifies slowly. 

“Essentially. But most items I purchase in other countries are either damaged, cursed, or old enough to need repairs. If I went around buying all these pieces in mint condition, I’d be bankrupt by now.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “That makes sense.”

“I think so, too.” The suspicion in Malfoy’s face has seeped out now, replaced with a neutral — albeit wary — expression. “It is quite time-consuming, though. By the time I’ve finished with my travels for the year, I never have nearly enough time to restore everything I’ve purchased.”

“Right,” Harry bobs his head in understanding. “How long are you usually out of the country?”

“About six months. Sometimes more if I make any spontaneous detours,” Malfoy says. 

Harry feels his eyes blow wide. “ _Six months?_ ”

“Give or take. It’s worth it, though.” Malfoy gestures vaguely at another row of shelving units to his left as he speaks. “Everything I have in here has a story behind it. And customers love hearing about those stories, especially if they’ve never been outside of Europe. Muggles, especially.”

Harry swallows. “I’ve never been outside Europe,” he says, but it comes out quieter than intended. 

Malfoy’s head snaps up. “ _Really?_ ”

A sudden nasty feeling spikes up in the bottom of Harry's stomach. He tries to push it down, keeping in mind that he’s dealing with a wizard who probably thinks that popping over to South America is equivalent to that of a quaint little day trip to Cornwall. The word _privilege_ rises uncomfortably in the back of his throat, and he finds himself clenching his jaw to force it back down. “Really,” he repeats, stiff.

“Oh,” Malfoy says, eyes round. “How unfortunate.”

The feeling swells, and Harry can feel his face begin to morph into stone. It takes practically all of his strength not to grit his teeth. “Is it?” 

“I—” Something changes in Malfoy’s expression, sliding from bewildered to alarmed. “Hang on, I didn’t mean it like that. I apologize. I only meant that it’s unfortunate you haven’t been able to study wizarding architecture beyond Europe. There are some mesmerizing magical temples in parts of Africa and Asia that you could most likely spend years studying. Like the Khajuraho temples in Madhya Pradesh, for example. Or the Great Pyramids in Egypt.”

Harry unclenches. Did Malfoy just… apologize to him? He blinks once, then twice, mind going completely blank.

Malfoy coughs awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to react like that. I’m… I know not everyone has the ability to travel as much as I have. It’s a very large part of my business. That’s all.”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry says eventually, astounding himself with how easily he accepts the apology. Maybe he’s still in shock. “It’s not your fault. I just— I wish I could see all of those places. I just don’t have the time. Or money.” He looks at his feet.

“Right, of course. And there’s nothing wrong with that,” Malfoy says, sounding almost completely genuine. There’s still a layer of some rigidity in his tone that, at this point, is probably just how he talks. 

The thing is, Harry most likely _does_ have enough money to travel the world. His family’s fortune has been sitting in Gringotts for years, untouched, probably collecting dust, but Harry can’t even begin to imagine a universe where he has enough time to make travel plans. He’d have to go through a million stacks of paperwork to even get permission to leave the continent, given his position and rank in the Department of Mysteries. Head Unspeakable Torres wouldn't agree to it unless Harry was miraculously being assigned to a case that had outreach beyond Europe — which never happened. Ever.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s almost never been outside the United Kingdom; the only times he ever left the island was during his Auror days, back when he used to chase illegal potions syndicates in Belgium and track down ex-Death Eaters in Greece. But other than that, he’s had no reason to leave the country. 

When Harry’s silence stretches out for a minute too long, Malfoy speaks up again. “Perhaps you should accompany me next time.”

Harry startles and looks up. “What?”

“I mean it,” Malfoy says, tone falling just shy of serious. “Next time I leave the country, you should come with. I could show you Atlantis.”

Speechless, and a bit concerned at the legitimacy of Malfoy’s words, Harry gapes. “Um.” 

He’s met with a patient, pending look.

“That… sounds like a plan,” he finishes lamely. 

If this conversation gets any odder, he might have to pinch himself, just to make sure it’s all real. It certainly doesn’t feel real.

“Wonderful.” Malfoy grins, clasping his hands. “I don’t know much about architecture, but I know Atlantis is considered an architectural marvel, even for wizards.”

“It’s not… underwater… is it?”

It sounds like a stupid question out loud, but Malfoy doesn’t treat it like one. “Not entirely,” he explains. “Some of the native Atlanteans have dwellings underwater, but only because they’re on good terms with the North Atlantic merpeople. I believe they have a trade port below the island, actually. The architecture I’m referring to is completely above ground, though. I would try to describe it to you, but it’s practically impossible.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. There are some ancient interpretations of it on those vases if you’re truly curious.” Malfoy swishes his wand and one of the Atlantean red-figure vases comes floating down from the high shelf behind Harry, hovering in front of him in a suspended _Wingardium Leviosa_. 

Harry squints, looking closer at the painted graphics on the smooth clay surface. Sure enough, small images of mighty Greek columns and domed buildings decorate the vase, intertwining with even smaller painted figurines and animals. 

“Woah,” he says, awestruck. He glances up at Malfoy. “What’s wrong with it?”

Malfoy narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with what?”

“The vase. You said you fix and restore all this stuff; what part of the vase needs fixing?”

“Oh.” Malfoy floats the vase closer to him and releases it with a clink onto his worktable. “Well, these images are supposed to be sentient, but the ancient magic that was used during their creation has worn down so much that it’s in need of repair. I haven’t gotten the chance to work on it yet.”

“Sentient, like the figures are supposed to move?”

“Move, yes, but also speak and think.” He taps the rim of the vase idly. “They’re conscious images. It involves complicated rune magic, and English portrait-makers have been using a version of it for centuries to give their paintings personality. I’ve tried it once or twice to repair a few family portraits, but I haven’t quite mastered it yet.”

“I see.” Harry draws closer to the worktable, eager to take another look. He may not be a real magical historian, but he can appreciate art when he sees it — especially if that art is giving his childhood fantasies an entirely new meaning. 

He finds himself standing next to Malfoy at the table, elbows brushing as he looks over the other man’s shoulder. Malfoy glances at him furtively, then back at the vase. “Watch this,” he says quietly, adjusting the wand in his hand and aiming it at the vase. 

Harry’s attention is briefly drawn to Malfoy’s hands, and he notices abruptly that he’s wearing rings. Lots of rings. They aren’t very large, but they’re clearly expensive, silvery, and studded with deep-hued gemstones. They’re also surprisingly flattering against his pale, knobby fingers. Whether or not the plain, silver band on his ring finger is a wedding ring, Harry can't tell. He looks away.

A small string of light has begun weaving itself out of Malfoy’s wand and materializing into small, runic characters in the air in front of them. He’s also begun chanting lightly under his breath, holding his wand steady as his eyelids flicker shut for a few moments. 

Harry watches in silent fascination as the symbols pulse in the air, then begin to arrange themselves into some sort of order and sink onto the surface of the vase, glowing orange. He vaguely recognizes a couple of them from Hermione’s extensive book collection on Ancient Runes, but he couldn’t translate them to save his life.

Then, after a lapse in chanting, Malfoy opens his eyes and flicks the tip of his wand. The runes immediately disappear, vanishing into the clay as if they were never there. 

Harry furrows his brow. “What—”

Malfoy holds up a finger to shush him, then jerks his chin at the vase. “Just watch.”

Without warning, one of the small figurines posed near the opening of the vase comes to life, shaking its tiny head and stretching its arms wide. Harry gasps involuntarily and leans closer.

“It’s moving,” he says, somewhat dumbly. 

Even though he’s not looking at Malfoy, he can hear the smirk in his voice. It’s hard not to. “Yes.”

“I thought you hadn’t mastered rune magic, though?”

“I haven’t. The incantation I just did is the standard one used for portraits, so it’ll most likely wear off within the next few minutes.” Malfoy reaches a bony finger out to trace the figure; it startles at the touch, then ducks behind a painted column. Harry laughs. 

“That’s amazing,” he says, and it comes out genuine. When he tears his eyes away, he looks up to find Malfoy just barely containing a pleased little smile at Harry’s reaction. 

_It’s a nice look on him,_ he thinks, completely against his will. He immediately shakes the thought away, sternly scolding his brain for spouting such utter nonsense, and opens his mouth to ask something lame like how much the vase sells for. 

Suddenly, the enchanted Galleon in his pocket heats up. _Shit._

He tries not to jump at the sensation, but he feels himself flinch despite his efforts. The surface temperature of the coin has risen just enough to sting his leg through the fabric of his trousers, alerting him that his Polyjuice disguise is close to wearing off. Meaning that he should either replenish it or return to his flat within the next ten minutes.

He momentarily toys with the idea of downing the small travel dosage he’d brought with him, just for the sake of staying longer and watching Malfoy play with rune magic, but he knows he’s already over-extended his visit. All he was supposed to do today was get a feel for the layout of the Manor and set the foundation for getting close to Malfoy; anything beyond that would just be overtime.

As discreetly as possible, slips his hand into his pocket and presses on the Galleon with his thumb so it stops radiating heat. Then, to cover for his sudden surprise, he grabs his wand out of the same pocket and casts a quick _Tempus_.

“Ah,” he says upon seeing the time — it’s just gone four in the afternoon — and frowns apologetically at Malfoy. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have to head back to my flat soon. I’ve got an order arriving that needs my signature, and I don’t want to keep any owls waiting.”

“Oh.” Malfoy blinks, looking away from the vase and straightening back up so he’s not hunched over the worktable. His elbow brushes Harry’s again. “That’s quite alright. I know how owls can be, the buggers.”

Harry snorts sympathetically, thinking of the clumsy-footed owl Malfoy had used to contact him earlier that morning. “I suppose you would. Tanya didn’t break any of my windows or appliances, though, so I wouldn’t worry.”

Malfoy barks out a laugh, a sound that is ever so strange to Harry’s ears. “How relieving. I’ve received one too many complaints about her manners, but I don’t have the heart to let her go.”

“I understand,” Harry replies. The Galleon heats up again, warning him to hurry his ass up. He squeezes it, taking the hint, then takes a step back from the work table. “Thank you for having me this morning, it was extremely helpful.”

Malfoy bows slightly, his hair slipping from behind his ears and glinting under the yellow lamplight. “Of course.” He lifts his head back up. “Will you be returning tomorrow?”

“If you’ll let me,” Harry replies, adjusting his satchel. “I’d like to take a closer look at some of the rooms you showed me, and take some notes as well.”

“Of course,” Malfoy says, waving easily. “You’re welcome to come by anytime — I’ll have Gimly add you to the wards so you won’t have to wait for me at the gate.”

“Brilliant,” Harry amends. “Can I Apparate directly out of here?”

Malfoy shakes his head. “No, not until you’ve been added to the wards. Do you know the way back to the front? I can walk you, if you’d like.”

“That’s alright, I think I can figure it out.” Harry opens the creaky door, a gust of wind tumbling into him and making his coat flap. He looks over his shoulder. “Thanks, again.”

Malfoy nods once more, daylight spilling through the door and lighting him up like a platinum beacon among the dark wood of the workshop. It would be a strange sight out of context, Harry thinks; Malfoy, with his hands clasped in front of him, dark blue sweater turning teal under the bright light, surrounded by thousands and thousands of magical artifacts from all over the world. He looks nothing at all like the Malfoy from Hogwarts — his hair isn’t slicked back, his face isn’t pinched, his robes aren’t tailored to fit his shoulders. Instead of sneering — a look that Harry’s much more familiar with — he’s just smiling politely, like a retail worker or a cashier would smile at a customer.

He looks normal. Almost. He’s still Malfoy, after all.

Harry should really pinch himself.

* * *

The minute he lands ungracefully back in the living room of his flat, Harry slumps against the door and lets out a decompressing sigh. His guise has completely worn off, leaving him in trainers a size too large and trousers that bunch unflatteringly at his ankles. His vision has also, inconveniently, reverted back to its signature fuzziness, blurring and blending the dark, burgundy-colored shapes of the living room. 

Wearily, he rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands and braces himself for the inevitable tidal wave of pent-up, Malfoy-induced exhaustion to crash over him. 

But it never comes. 

It puzzles him for a moment as a strange, numb feeling inflates in Harry’s brain and makes his ears buzz and his limbs feel light. It’s not a bad kind of numbness, though. It’s almost welcome. As if…

As if he’s just come home from a long, pleasant day of work. Huh.

It’s a little concerning, he thinks. He’d fully prepared himself for a day brimming with overbearing sneers and backhanded comments about pureblood superiority. And, well, sure, there’d been a lot of stiff smiles and gritted teeth throughout the day, but bigoted comments? Nonexistent. Now that he thinks about it, the only time Malfoy had brought up blood status was when he’d talked about his family’s age-old alliances in the conservatory. Other than that, the topic had remained completely untouched. 

It should be a good thing — a very good thing, at that — but Harry can’t help the ball of discomfort that squeezes like a lemon in the pit of his stomach. Malfoy’s new personality (or, arguably, lack thereof) isn’t at all the personality Harry remembers from five years ago, back when he’d been throwing ex-Death Eaters into holding cells every other day. That Malfoy — the old Malfoy — had been prickly, irritable, and cold, if not subdued by the weight of his consequences.

This Malfoy is something else entirely. It’s like Harry's spent the whole day talking to a re-programmed version of him; a version that doesn't sneer, jibe, or boast; a version that doesn't look at Harry like a piece of dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. 

A version that Harry has no fucking clue how to deal with. 

Sighing again — this time with more confusion than anything else — he pinches the bridge of his nose and _Accios_ his glasses from the bedroom wardrobe, not wanting to risk a headache. When he finally blinks away all the blurriness, abruptly, his eyes fall upon a coffee-colored barn owl that’s snoozing on the arm of the frayed living room sofa. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters when he sees it, alarmed and confused as his brain races to try and figure out how exactly the small creature had gotten inside the apartment. Eventually, he remembers how he’d left the kitchen window open that morning after dismissing Malfoy’s owl, a rookie mistake given how fucking cold the weather is.

Snorting softly at his own thickness, Harry runs a hand through his hair — curly, again — and hauls himself away from the door. He kicks off his too-large shoes and discards his coat onto the back of a chair before approaching the scrawny bird, suppressing a shiver in the drafty atmosphere. 

Attached to the owl’s leg with a piece of twine is a thick, navy-blue envelope, completely unadorned and absent of any name or return address. Which means it’s from Bates. 

He unfastens the package gingerly, taking care not to wake the owl; the poor thing has most likely been waiting here all day, what with the way its little ivory head is tucked lethargically into its feathers. He smiles a little as it stirs at his touch and lets out a faint coo; he runs his thumb gently across the fluffy part above its eyes. “Aren’t you a sweet one?” 

It ruffles its feathers sleepily, then tucks deeper into the arm of the sofa; Harry’s smile stretches. Not wanting to disturb it further, he takes his business to the kitchen, shutting the faulty window and casting a heavy Warming Charm over the room to swathe the damp air. 

Since the blue envelope is Department-issued, he has to tap on the seal with his wand in order to verify his identity and request access to the contents inside, a process that, while extensive, ensures maximum security. Harry thinks it’s kind of ridiculous — it’s not like Unspeakables are stupid enough to send classified information back and forth at the hands of an owl. Well, at least Bates isn’t. 

The first thing slides out when he finally gets the envelope open is a grey plastic brick that looks suspiciously like a Muggle flip-phone, causing his eyebrows to shoot up; a note flutters after it, landing face-down on the kitchen table. 

__

> _To: Agent Green, ID 12-3126A  
>  Case Number: 658-0  
>  Classification Level: Orange — Moderate_
> 
> _Green—_
> 
> _Because of your inability to access the Floo system while on duty, I’ve enclosed a couple of regulated gadgets that can help me communicate with you on a daily basis without owl interference._
> 
> _First, I’ve included a set of instructions at the end of this letter that will strengthen the charms on your Galleon; I spoke with a few of our colleagues downstairs in the Devices Division, and they explained that the standard-issue coins they’re permitted give out are only meant to last for 72 hours, tops. Please use the instructions they gave me to extend that time._
> 
> _Second, no, your eyes aren’t deceiving you; that is a Muggle wireless telephone. It’s been altered so all unnecessary Muggle hardware has been replaced with Anti-Tracking Charms that should render it safe to use. I have one of the same model — my number is (020) 338-1072. Please call me tonight after receiving this package so we can debrief your first day._
> 
> _Finally, at the request of Head Unspeakable Torres, I’ve been told to send you specific equipment that will make our jobs significantly easier. Inside the envelope, you’ll find a small fabric bag that contains the newest version of Weasley & Co.’s Listening Ladybugs. I’m sure you’re aware of their bestselling commercial product, the Extendable Ear — this device allegedly uses the same magic with a different, more practical format. _

Harry pauses to dig into the envelope again; sure enough, his fingers close around a small baggie that’s filled with multicolored, bug-sized listening devices. He pours a few into the palm of his hand and grins as they jump to attention, their little mechanical wings fluttering at his touch.

He’d played a big role in getting the Department to approve some of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes’ spy-related products for field use. The minute George had been recruited, he went wild in creating and producing new, more advanced technology for the Department of Mysteries and MLE, a feat that always made Harry’s heart thump with pride when he thought about it. Head Unspeakable Torres was constantly badgering George for new versions of his devices, and they kept getting better with each release.

__

> _In order to use the Ladybugs as efficiently as possible, I’d recommend stationing one in every area of Malfoy Manor that has a Floo outlet. Since Auror Robards and his Homicide Division (good grief, what an awful name) tentatively concluded at the end of their “investigation” that Malfoy is selling murderous Dark Artifacts, they also concluded that he must be in contact with a dealer of some kind who is supplying him with said artifacts._
> 
> _While both you and I know that their accusations are ungrounded and misleading at best, Torres has advised us to proceed with these methods of investigation anyway as to not face legal entanglement with the Auror office. I think being pushed around by Magical Law Enforcement is rather stupid, given that we aren’t at liberty to talk about our methods of investigation with them, but these are Torres’ instructions — not mine._
> 
> _Please send the owl back with this envelope so it knows what Department to return to._
> 
> _— Agent Bates_

Harry folds the letter and tucks it into his back pocket. She’s hit the nail on the head, really; there is absolutely no reason the Department of Mysteries should be getting pushed around by the Aurors on a legal basis, let alone the Undercover Operative Division. They aren’t required to tell the Aurors a single thing about their investigations.

And yet.

Harry wants to sigh again, but he decides against it in favor of picking up the wireless phone and flipping it open. He’s met with a tiny plastic keypad and a blank blue screen, blinking at him as he punches in the number Bates gave him. 

It rings four times, a tinny sound that he absolutely loathes, then abruptly stops and is replaced with blank static. Then, _“Hello?”_

“Bates,” Harry says in greeting to the distorted voice of his partner. He pulls out a dining chair and plops down on it. “Did I get your number right?”

 _“Evidently. Congratulations, Green._ ”

“Thanks.”

_“I assume this means you got my letter?”_

“I did. You really went all-out for this case, huh?”

_“Mm, I wouldn’t say ‘all-out’. Muggle phones are extremely simple devices.”_

“Are they?”

_“If you managed to figure out how to use one, then yes. I’d say so.”_

Harry grins. “Twat.”

_“Wanker.”_

“Cow.”

_“Arse-licker.”_

“Is this an official work call, or not?”

_“Only if you want it to be. How was your first day?”_

Harry leans back in his chair and props his socked feet on the dining table and says truthfully, “Not bad.”

_”Care to elaborate?”_

“I mean,” he tilts his head and tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear, “It was pretty straightforward. Kind of boring, actually.” 

That’s a little less truthful; the day had been fascinating on more than one level, especially given the endless waterfall of stories and anecdotes that Malfoy had spouted. Even if Harry didn’t know a single thing about architecture or wizarding history, he was engaged with Malfoy’s dialogue all day. But the stubborn, Gryffindor-ish part of him isn't about to tell Bates that. 

_“What happened? Did you see the inside of the Manor?”_

“I did. Fucking grand. I felt like I was intruding on royalty.”

There’s a short, choppy laugh. _“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were. He comes from old money, you know. Like, incredibly old.”_

“Malfoy? I’m aware.”

_"Well, he doesn’t exactly hide it. Speaking of, how was he? Did it seem like he suspected anything?”_

Harry shrugs even though Bates can’t see him. “Not that I know of. He was fine, mostly. Polite.”

_“That doesn’t sound right.”_

“I know. Creeped me out a little.”

_“I can imagine. Did he give you a tour?”_

“Yeah. It took bloody ages, though.”

_“And?”_

Harry frowns. “And what?”

_“Did you find anything? Did anything jump out at you and scream ‘a murderer lives here’? Did he admit anything to you? Anything at all?”_

“Oh.” He rolls his eyes. “No, actually.”

Bates tuts. _“That’s a shame."_

"Wha- no it bloody isn't!"

_"Oh, but it is. Now you’ll have to actually put effort into finding this so-called evidence.”_

Harry scowls. “Is that not what I was doing in the first place?”

_“That's debatable, but never mind. Have you looked at the Listening Ladybug devices yet?”_

He fights off another eye-roll and ignores her lightly evasive insult, knowing it won't do him any good to argue with. “Yes, I have. They’re brilliant. Geor- Mr. Weasley outdid himself.”

_“I thought so, too, even if they’re utterly unnecessary. Torres wants you to get them set up by the weekend so you can start monitoring Malfoy’s Floo activity as soon as possible.”_

“She’s bonkers.”

_“She’s diplomatic.”_

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

_“Oh, bugger off. You know how much shit she's gotten from Robards and Levy, just for being the only female Head of Department in the whole bloody Ministry. Forgive her if she wants them off her back for two seconds.”_

Immediately, Harry backs down, knowing she’s right while also knowing he has absolutely no skin in the game of Ministry gender politics. That’s Hermione’s specialty. “I know, I know. They’re both assholes. I don’t blame her.”

There’s silence from the other end of the phone. If they were in the same room, Harry swears Bates would be raising her eyebrows, unimpressed. 

“Okay, maybe I blame her a little. But not really. I’m just…” he pauses, grasping for the right words. “I’m just annoyed that we have to do this. I thought people would be over all the Death Eater shit by now enough to stop accusing the innocent ones of murder.”

A pause. Then, soft, stilted; _“You think he’s innocent?”_

Harry’s mouth drops open. He takes his feet off the table. “ _Of course_ I think he’s innocent. He’s Draco Malfoy, not Jack the Ripper.” She might not understand exactly who Jack the Ripper is, but his tone should get the point across anyway. 

_“Yes, but— ”_

“But what?!” Harry’s entire body shifts as something hot ignites on the floor of his stomach. “There’s no ‘but’, Bates. He’s not capable of murder. The only reason I even agreed to take his case was to prove the Aurors wrong, not to add to their pile of bullshit.”

_“I know that! Just— listen to me, will you?”_

Harry snaps his mouth shut at her tone, but the wave of heat beneath his skin continues to swirl and pulsate. Normally, he’d be the last person on Earth to defend Malfoy privately, but something feels important about this conversation. He’s not going to lie for the sake of justifying those leftover feelings of resentment he has towards Malfoy because of their schoolyard rivalry; it’s not right. Or fair. Merlin knows he’d love to just screw it all to hell and say yes, Malfoy is the murderer, now take him away! Lock him up and throw away the key!

But he wouldn’t love that. He wouldn’t love that one bit. Being a bully is one thing, but purposely taking someone’s life is another. And if anyone should know that, it’s Harry. He’s died before.

_“Are you listening?”_

He closes his eyes briefly, steeling himself, then nods. “Yes.”

Bates pauses, sucking in an audible breath through the speaker. _“I don’t think that Draco Malfoy is a serial killer. At all. But I also don’t think it’s smart to go into an investigation with the assumption that he’s completely innocent. Not for his sake, but for ours — yours. If you think he’s innocent, your mind isn’t going to look for the right clues, because denial will always come first.”_

Harry grimaces. “Yeah, but still. We’re not going to find anything.”

 _“That’s exactly what I mean. Maybe we_ will _find something, even if it’s not what we’re expecting. We have to stay flexible in order for this investigation to work. Does that make sense?”_

“Yes,” Harry concedes, but it comes as a grumble.

_“Believe me, I don’t like it either. Going through his records hasn’t been fun for me whatsoever, but it’s what I need to do. And you need to do your fieldwork. That’s our job.”_

“I know.”

_“I know you know. I’m just reminding you.”_

Harry takes a long, collecting breath, and holds it for a few seconds. “Thanks, I suppose,” he finally says after an exhale.

 _“You’re welcome._ ” She pauses. _“While we’re on the topic, can I ask you something?”_

He straightens against the back of his chair, forehead creasing. That’s never a good starter. “Go ahead.”

There’s a drawn-out moment from the other end of the phone, static crinkling slightly as Bates sucks in a deep breath. Finally, she asks tentatively, _“Did he… did he seem okay?”_

“Um. What do you mean?”

_“Like, emotionally. Physically. Whatever.”_

The roof of Harry’s mouth feels dry. He swallows, trying to find some way to answer that. But why is she asking? Should he have an answer? He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it again. 

Her voice cuts in, _“You know what, nevermind. Stupid question. Forget I asked.”_

“Oh, er, okay.”

A beat passes. Neither of them speaks.

 _“How about I call you tomorrow? I’m sure you’re tired after a day with him. I don’t mean to take up your afternoon.”_

Harry frowns again; she sounds apologetic. “You’re not taking up anything. But sure, we can talk tomorrow.”

_“Right. Okay. Great.”_

He echoes, “Great.”

_“I’ll talk to you later, then.”_

“Yeah. Later.”

_“Alright. Have a good night, Green.”_

“You too.”

The line goes dead. Harry flips the phone shut, dazed.

When he eventually peels himself away from the kitchen and shuffles back into the living room, headed for his creaky four-poster where he intends to indulge in a quick nap before dinner, he stops and finds himself face-to-face with the barn owl again. 

This time, its eyes are wide open, round, and swirling with deep golds and browns. It tilts its head, looking as confused as Harry feels, if not for the same reasons. 

He sympathizes with the little bird silently, squatting down next to the sofa to offer the blue envelope back. It regards that with equal bewilderment.

"Go on," Harry says, nudging it slightly with the tip of the envelope. "It doesn't bite."

Hesitantly reassured, the bird bends forward and snatches the envelope out of Harry’s fingers, then spreads its wings and flaps towards the living room window. Harry's lips quirk as he trails behind, unlatching the glass pane and prompting the bird to hoot graciously and dart away into the hazy dusk. Delicately, he leans his elbows against the windowsill, watching as it soars higher and higher until it is nothing but a russet-colored speck against the metallic evening sky.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry is jarred awake far too early for his liking by the bustling sounds of the cafe directly below his bedroom, tinkling doorbells and grinding coffee-makers soaking into the walls and leaking through the floorboards as he sits up. Groggily, before climbing out of bed and succumbing to the cold eddy of the morning, he wraps his fingers into the silk-lined fleece of his blanket and runs through his mental to-do list. 

Malfoy had said that Harry was welcome to visit the Manor at any point once he’d been added to the wards, granting him complete free reign of the grounds to “study” and “take notes” as he pleases, and that’s exactly what he plans to do today. He’d spent almost the entire evening prior fiddling with the new ladybug-shaped listening gadgets, getting them activated and set up for use. According to the instructions Bates had attached to her letter, Harry would be able to listen to any of the select bugs through an individual earpiece, one that’s supposed to ping whenever a bug picks up audible activity. He supposes it would make sense to set up the devices while he has the Manor to himself, and since Torres wants them activated as soon as possible, today would be the best day to do it. 

Sighing and giving his eyes a cursory rub, he reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and rolls off the springy bed and into an upright position, floorboards frigid beneath his bare feet. A shiver washes over his skin like ice water, and he quickly covers up his rising goosebumps with a thick woolen jumper that he suspects belonged to Ron at one point, because it’s several sizes too large and slips past his fingertips, but he doesn’t care. It’s warm, and that’s all that matters.

He cycles through his morning routine with slow ease, washing his unruly hair under the hot spray of the shower, then knocking back a large dose of Polyjuice and pouring the rest into a shiny metal thermos in case he needs a refill later. It burns like a bitch on the way down his throat, but it’s worth it in the end when his soft jawline morphs into a rugged one and the dark circles under his eyes disappear without a trace. 

Maybe Polyjuice does have its perks. Maybe.

After several long minutes of genuine deliberation, Harry sighs and exchanges Ron’s cozy wool jumper for a simple, dark-grey thermal that hugs his arms and doesn’t fall past his wrists, making it much more suitable for work, but far less comforting. To compensate for the loss, he grabs his favorite dark-washed denim jacket on his way out the door and flips his collar up, not bothering with a scarf despite the chilly weather that lies in waiting beyond his apartment. He’d rather not be overdressed compared to Malfoy, this time.

Downstairs, the cafe is filled with amicable chatter, and there’s some sort of instrumental jazz music floating out of a hidden speaker somewhere behind the counter. Mrs. Plum, the landlady, is behind the counter as well, fiddling with one of the polished espresso machines and humming along to the steady sound of a trombone. 

When Harry emerges through the beaded curtain that separates the storeroom from the dining area, she breaks into a grin and beckons him over with an enthusiastic wave. 

“Nicholas! Have you eaten yet, love?” she asks the minute he approaches the counter, craning her neck over a glass display of fresh pastries to give him a scrutinizing, motherly look. “You’re far too thin, you know.”

Automatically, he’s reminded of Molly. “I haven’t,” he admits with a smile, falling prey to her hen-like gaze and tapping a light finger on the display. “You wouldn’t happen to have treacle tart in there, would you?”

She scoffs, not unkindly. “Young man, treacle tart is not breakfast food. Could I perhaps interest you in a muffin, instead? A croissant?”

Harry flashes his teeth at her with mirth. “It’s always dessert-time somewhere, Mrs. Plum.”

She shakes her head and tuts disapprovingly, but opens the back of the display anyways and grabs what looks to be a pumpkin-flavored muffin. When he reaches for the wad of Muggle cash in the back pocket of his jeans to pay her, she stops him pointedly.

“No, no, you’re already paying rent. No need to pay for this, as well.”

He takes his hand out of his pocket and tries not to let the current of guilt washing down his spine get to him. He’s not the one paying rent — the Department of Mysteries is. “Thank you,” he replies earnestly.

“My pleasure. Would you like coffee as well?” She hands him the muffin, now cocooned in brown paper napkins.

“I’m alright. Thank you, though, really.”

“Of course.” She finally returns the smile, brushing a few strands of grey hair back from her temples and smoothing them back into the haphazard bun at the top of her head. “You’re doing business at the estate up the hill, aren’t you?”

Startled, he nods. “I am, yes.” How she came upon this information, he has no idea, but he suspects she was given some sort of disclosure when she rented the flat out. He adds, “I’m writing a paper on manor architecture. Specifically, er…” He jerks his head, hoping she gets the message. 

Thankfully, she does, bobbing her head in understanding. “Yes, I figured. Beautiful place, that estate.”

“You’ve seen it?”

Her old, clever eyes crinkle at the corners. “Of course, dear. Nearly the whole town has seen it at some point or other.” 

Harry’s sudden bewilderment must be on display, because she laughs merrily.

“The old couple who used to live there were quite adamant about opening the grounds to the public every season for tours and charity functions,” she explains, taking pity on his wide, confused eyes. “I’ll admit, there hasn’t been one of those since the old pair passed some twenty years ago, and the new heirs haven’t been nearly as outgoing.” She lowers her voice; “I’m the only one who knows who they really are, those Malfoys, but the youngest one of the lot comes to town quite often, so others know him by name. He’s got a gallery a few blocks down, I believe.”

“An antique shop,” Harry corrects idly, even though it’s entirely possible that the shop could double as a gallery — he doesn’t know. He’s too busy trying to wrap his head around what she’s just said. 

“Right, that’s it. Atlantis Antiques.” A small smile graces Mrs. Plum’s features as she closes the glass display and wipes her hands on her cream-colored apron. “Lovely little place. I’ve got a few sets of china from there, I think. Anyways, I digress. The house hasn’t been open for viewing in ages, but if you’re doing research on it, perhaps they’re thinking about opening it again in the future.”

Harry nods, hoping it doesn’t look strained. The so-called “old pair” couldn’t possibly have been Narcissa and Lucius, so it must have been… Draco’s grandparents? 

Still, there’s absolutely no way the Manor is going to be opened to the public any time soon — the only reason Malfoy’s even letting Harry poke around in the first place is because he’s on kinda-sorta Ministry business. He doesn’t tell this to Mrs. Plum, who looks quite hopeful at the prospect of the estate re-opening to the public, trying instead for an encouraging tone. “It’s certainly a possibility.”

“Well, a girl can dream.” Her thin, pale lips quirk fondly as she wipes her frail hands on a cloth napkin tucked in the front pocket of her apron. She adds, “My parents used to take me to those tours all the time when I was a child. I thought it was so brilliant that I could see things about the place that the other locals couldn’t, like the fancy peacocks and the enchanted tapestries.” 

Harry tries and fails to hide his surprise. “You could see that stuff?”

“I could, yes, even though I’m a—” She pauses, glancing at the short queue of customers behind Harry that are being attended to by other employees. They’re still in earshot, though, so she’s careful to lower her voice again. “—a Squib. I’ve always been able to see magic, just never able to… you know.” She waves her hands vaguely.

“Right,” Harry says, nodding along. “I didn’t realize. Sorry for assuming.”

She makes another Molly-ish noise in the back of her throat. “No worries, dear. It’s not common knowledge, so I wouldn’t expect you to know. Every one of us Squibs are different, and our affinity for magic presents itself differently.”

Harry didn’t know that either. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

“As you should,” she replies approvingly. Then, switching gears, she waves at the muffin in his hands and shoos him away from the counter. “Now, go on. Go eat and do your research. You can tell me all about the estate some other time.”

“Yes, I absolutely will.” He re-adjusts his satchel and tips his muffin towards her gratefully. “Thanks, again.”

She smiles, but persists in shooing him away until he’s standing in the front alcove of the shop and flipping his collar up against the wind, muffin cupped in his hands. He bites into it as he begins walking, finishing the entire thing by the time he gets to the Apparition point. It’s no treacle tart, but it’s certainly delicious nonetheless. 

Instead of Apparating to the gates and enduring a long walk up the winding driveway of the Manor, he tries his luck at landing somewhere within the boundaries of the estate, preferably near the front doors. To his triumph, he appears with a stumble a few feet away from the impressive marble portico, just as imposing and arrogant as the day before. It’s also just as cold, wind whipping the hair around Harry’s temples and forcing him to hunker down into his jacket as he takes the steps two at a time. 

Finally reaching the carved oak door, he hesitates; there’s no knocker, or doorbell, or anything that he could use to announce his arrival. So should he just… walk inside? It’s a daunting thought — the door handle could be jinxed, after all — but he doesn’t have much else of a choice. He scrunches his nose, eyeing the gleaming metal handle suspiciously. It doesn’t look _too_ threatening, at least not enough to stop him from reaching out and twisting it before he can convince himself not to. 

Eerily, the foyer is empty when he steps inside. The orange bulbs of light floating near the ceiling flicker as the door shuts behind him, leaving him in near-darkness. His footsteps echo as he comes to a stop in the middle of the floor, soles squeaking against the polished stone. 

“Hello?” he calls tentatively into the vacant room, not entirely expecting an answer but not knowing what else to do. Thankfully, a loud _pop_ rips through the atmosphere and Malfoy’s house elf appears a few feet away from Harry. 

“Sir Nicholas!” she exclaims, ears bouncing as she rushes forward excitedly. “Sir Nicholas is returning!”

Harry can’t help but grin, deciding to let the ‘sir’ slide despite how unnatural it sounds. She’s wearing another dress made of purple satin, knotted at the shoulder like a tunic, and shimmering iridescently in the dusky light. “Good morning, Gimly. Mal— _Lord_ Malfoy invited me back so I could continue my research on the estate, and I let myself in. Is that alright?”

“If young Lord Malfoy is saying it is alright, then it is alright,” Gimly replies, barely containing her abundance of energy as she clasps her hands behind her back and rocks forward. “Gimly is honored to be serving any guest of her Lord.”

“Of course you are,” Harry responds kindly, even though her elfish eagerness is slightly foreign to him. It’s not his fault, really; living with Kreacher for three excruciatingly long years after the war hadn’t done much to level his expectations of house-elves. “Is he around, by any chance?”

Gimly nods her head, keeping her spine straight. “He is in his workshop, sir. He is telling Gimly not to disturb him unless it is being necessary.”

“Oh.” Harry frowns at that. “Is he aware that I’m on the property? I don’t want to… intrude…” he trails off. Ah, irony.

“Yes, sir, he is being aware,” she confirms. “He is telling Gimly to open the floors for viewing in case sir Nicholas is wanting to see them again, and not to disturb Sir Nicholas, either, unless it is being necessary.”

“Oh.” Harry stops frowning. “Alright, then. Um. I wouldn’t mind taking another look around.”

“Very good, sir,” Gimly bows her head, but he can tell that she’s still vibrating with excitement. “Gimly will be here if sir is needing any assistance.” 

“Thanks,” Harry replies lamely, and then she’s gone, snapping her bony fingers and popping away to Merlin-knows-where. 

Stranded in the dark foyer once again, he sucks in a sharp breath and tightens his grip on his satchel, ladybugs rattling inside their pouches he does so. He needs to scout out places to set them up — preferably ones near the Manor’s Floo outlets — so he and Bates can monitor every departure, arrival, or conversation that occurs within the building. It also wouldn’t hurt to get one set up inside Malfoy’s workshop, he supposes, mentally patting himself on the back for grabbing his invisibility cloak that morning and stowing it away in his bag. He doesn’t typically have to use it on undercover investigations, but it seems right to have it with him this time. Safer. 

_This isn’t school,_ he reminds himself sternly, no matter how much it feels like it — sneaking around under his dad’s cloak, Malfoy on the brain. No, this is his job now, as absurd as it may be. 

Plastering on a mask of determination, he starts towards one of the long hallways that branch off from the foyer, keeping his head ducked so he doesn’t make eye contact with any high-strung portraits. He finds the lounge first, remembering the large hearth he’d sat in front of the day prior — one that’s most definitely connected to the Floo system. It isn’t lit this time, but Harry squats in front of it anyway, stuffing a hand into his bag and rummaging around for one of the tiny mechanical bugs. When he finds one and pulls it out, it flutters excitedly in his palm then jumps onto the polished mantelpiece on its own accord, little wings beating. 

“Do you know what to do?” Harry asks the minuscule thing, knowing it can’t understand him. 

Still, it seems to have a mind of its own, burrowing down behind the base of a candelabra and making itself at home. It even lets out a tinny buzzing sound, eliciting a wan smile from Harry. It’s a truly remarkable piece of equipment, even if he’s using it for all the wrong reasons. 

“Right, then. I’ll leave you to it.”

He follows the same procedure in every other room he can find with a fireplace, letting the bugs flit around on their own accord then self-activate once they’ve found a comfortable spot. It takes him almost an hour to get through the first floor, hallways growing darker and windier the further he moves into the building; he gets more turned around and confused with every corner he rounds. It was much easier to navigate with Malfoy by his side the day before — given that he knows the house like the back of his pale, bony hand — but Harry’s determined to persevere without him. Even if that means accidentally walking into the same parlor four times through four different doorways.

By the time he reaches the second floor, he’s frazzled, frustrated, and sick to death of the bloody portraits that have been following his every move with their macabre eyes. Some of them are even going as far as to mutter and scoff at his lack of direction, their craftily painted sneers taunting him as he makes his way clumsily through the house. He didn’t think it was possible to have this many relatives — especially with the amount of inbreeding the Malfoys have probably participated in — but go figure.

To his relief, the second floor is much easier to get through, given that there’s only one main hallway and only five out of the nine bedrooms have hearths in them — except one of those rooms happens to be Malfoy’s. 

It’s the one singular bedroom that Harry hasn’t seen the inside of yet. Yesterday, Malfoy had only nodded offhandedly at the white-painted door and muttered “My room”, not bothering to twist the gilded handle and let Harry have a peek. Out of courtesy (respect? fear?) Harry hadn’t asked, despite the curiosity burning like a furnace in the center of his chest. 

Now, that burn has quadrupled into a full-on Fiendfyre. 

He’s positively dying to know what’s behind the white door; dying to know exactly what the inside looks like. Is it polished and pristine, like the other master bedrooms? Is there a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, with freshly-pressed linens and silk curtains? Or is it deliberately cluttered and chaotic, like the downstairs lounge, covered wall-to-wall with bookshelves and paintings? Is it Slytherin-themed, decorated in dark, stylish greens and glittering silvers? 

He wants to _know_ , but as he reaches out to grab the door handle, something stops him.

 _Malfoy didn’t show you this for a reason,_ he thinks, hand dropping to his side as he stares at the chipped, cream-colored paint. 

He shouldn’t go in. He’s already overstepped his boundaries so far that this would just be flat out barbaric. 

But he needs to go in. 

Stuck at a crossroads, he stuffs his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out his charmed Galleon to send a quick, desperate message to Bates. No less than thirty seconds later, the coin heats up in his palm and presents the words: 

_Evry Floo needs L-bug. Bedrm Floo imprtant. Sck it up!!!  
—B_

He frowns, knowing she would say that, then sends back a quick _git_ before shoving it back in his pocket. It’s not like he needs convincing, but a little reassurance would have been nice. 

Taking a deep, composing breath, he casts a quick round of diagnosis spells on the white door to uncover any nasty wards that he might need to disarm before barging inside. Surprisingly, there’s only one layer — and a pretty standard one at that. It’s connected to the larger household system, meaning that he can disable it no problem since Malfoy had added him to the house wards. He frowns a little at the lack of security, but pushes on anyway and twists the silver handle. 

He doesn’t know what to expect when he gets the door open, so he can’t tell if he should be disappointed or fascinated at the scene that unfolds in front of him. The room isn’t noticeably large — not compared to some of the other masters, at least — but it could still probably fit Number 4 Privet Drive’s entire living room inside it, and potentially the kitchen as well. 

The ceilings are high and arched, supported by an assortment of dark wooden buttresses and exposed beams; from the beams, small, rustic chandeliers hang, weighed down by circles of unlit candles. Sheer, patterned curtains drape across lanky french windows, washing the room in a lazy tide of grey sunlight and illuminating the glossy band posters and pieces of unframed artwork that mottle the exposed stone walls. 

Pushed neatly into a far corner is a spruce-colored bed frame, saddled with a heap of multicolored wools and fleeces that spill off the sides and onto a green-ish blue oriental rug. Not far from the bed is a somewhat modest fireplace; it sits dormant in front of a cluster of plump armchairs, ones with stray jumpers tossed over the backs and piles of books stacked on the cushions. Oddly-shaped lamps and empty tea mugs teeter on top of scuffed nightstands and overflowing bureaus; potted plants and metal goblets brimming with quills and fountain pens litter sumptuous bookshelves, and suddenly Harry is at a loss for words. 

He stands on the threshold with his arms at his sides as he takes in the room, feeling much like he had when he stepped into the workshop the day prior — helpless, awestruck, and disoriented. Mostly just awestruck, though. 

It’s not at all what he expected.

Other than the sheer size of the room, there’s nothing truly phenomenal about it. It’s messy, and cluttered, and animated, and _human_ , but… it’s just a bedroom. Malfoy’s bedroom. No, not Malfoy, _Draco’s_ bedroom. 

Draco Malfoy’s bedroom. He’s standing in Draco Malfoy’s bedroom, and he doesn’t hate it. 

Well.

Lips parted in silent fascination, he takes another step inside, hearing the white door creak behind him. His eyes are fixed on the poster-covered walls, flitting over black-and-white images of David Bowie, Lou Reed, Queen, and even the stark red logo of The Rolling Stones, unmoving and stark against the grey stone. 

_Muggle music,_ his brain supplies helpfully. _Good_ Muggle music. Sure, there are posters of The Weird Sisters and The Hobgoblins as well, but they don’t stand out nearly as much as the one of a pink-haired Ziggy Stardust bending over a slim microphone, mouth wide open in mid-song. 

Harry’s not sure when his own mouth fell open, but he has a feeling he doesn’t look much different. Just less… Ziggy-like. 

Malfoy’s the last person Harry would ever expect to listen to Muggle rock music — let alone have posters of Muggle rock bands pasted onto the wall above his headboard — and the thought of him at a concert packed in between hoards of Muggles is a confusing one. Harry tries to imagine him with a plastic cup of beer in hand while throngs of scantily-dressed fans bump against him, singing along to the pulsating thrum of an electric guitar, forcing him to sway with the music as elbows and shoulders jam into his sides, then immediately snorts and shakes the image away. 

_Not bloody likely._ Malfoy wouldn’t touch a Muggle concert like that with a ten-foot pole, no matter how good the music.

Tearing his eyes away from the walls, Harry takes a brave step further into the room. It smells slightly different than the rest of the house, like citrus-scented candle wax and firewood. It’s dizzying, but not at all unpleasant. 

Above the mantelpiece of the fireplace is a wide, silver-girdled mirror that catches Harry’s reflection as he moves, his unnaturally brown eyes blinking back at him. Suddenly insecure, he reaches up and tugs at the collar of his denim jacket, straightening it where the strap of his bag has mussed it up. 

He half expects the mirror to snicker at him or make some sort of snooty comment, like the one back in his flat does on occasion, but it doesn’t. It’s just him, in his disguise, frowning lightly without really meaning to.

He looks away and tries to ignore the itchy feeling that wriggles beneath his skin.

For reasons unknown, the chosen ladybug that he releases into the air decides to take its sweet time getting comfortable on Malfoy’s mantel. It buzzes in weak, dilatory circles in front of the quiet mirror, refusing to land in one spot for more than three seconds at a time. 

Harry watches it warily, tamping down the urge to squash it and hightail it back into the hallway, away from Malfoy’s band posters and unmade bed and inviting armchairs. Much, much too inviting armchairs. 

From far away, they looked comfortable — as armchairs should — but up close, they look just a step down from heavenly. They’re made of some sort of corduroy material, droopy and timeworn with obvious affection, flanked by round embroidered pillows and soft-looking throw blankets, and Harry wants to sink into one very badly. He resists, though, knowing that Malfoy would probably murder him in his sleep if he found anything out of place. 

Wait, no, not murder. Just— er. Fuck. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harry fixes his glare on the ladybug currently hovering above a framed photograph and buzzing idly. “Hurry up, would you?”

 _Bzz bzz,_ it offers unhelpfully, flapping its little mechanical wings. 

“Lazy bugger.” Harry rolls his eyes, then abruptly stops mid-roll as a piece of artwork taped above the mantel catches his attention. 

It looks like a charcoal drawing of some sort, with dark, soft lines, centered on a piece of parchment that’s frayed at the edges like a page ripped out of a sketchbook. It’s an illustration of the back profile of a boy, one that draws its grey-clad shoulder blades up and looks to the side, produces a strange little smile, then looks away again as if to hide a laugh. 

Intrigued, Harry pops onto his toes and leans closer, ignoring the startled _bzz!_ of the ladybug as it darts out of his way. 

The drawing moves in a loop like a photograph, cottony and smooth against the textured paper. The boy’s long hair flutters in a non-existent breeze, spilling over his forehead and brushing the tip of his pointy nose as his head moves. The landscape around him is blurry and smudged, and Harry can just barely make out the pointed caps of trees and wispy clouds floating in the distant background. 

There’s something starkly intimate about the image, as if the boy is smiling right at the artist and laughing at a shared, private joke. Or, maybe, he’s smiling right at Harry, not the artist, grey eyes glinting in the charcoal sun.

It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to realize that the boy is Malfoy. 

The sharp nose, the thin lips, the poised shoulders — it’s all Malfoy. 

Oh.

The initials _V.B.P_ are scrawled in loopy script at the bottom right corner of the parchment, like a professional would sign their work, but Harry can’t think of a single professional wizarding artist who would willingly sit down and draw Malfoy. Especially draw him like… that. 

Like he’s something worth drawing.

Harry takes a step back, suddenly overwhelmed for reasons he can’t explain, and thinks _screw this_. The ladybug still hasn’t landed, so he reaches out and grabs it without a second thought, then spins on his heel and starts back towards the door. 

He’s not going to spy on Malfoy in his bedroom — his _private quarters_ — because he knows that Malfoy is a human being, and human beings deserve privacy. Even if they’re rotten human beings.

He shuts the door behind him firmly, fingers hot around the cool silver handle as he exhales and lets the last of the citrusy-smelling air melt away. The corridor is unfeeling and dark, only a skinny sliver of sunlight seeping in from a thin pentagonal window, exactly how he’d left it. When he feels the ladybug vibrate against the skin of his palm, he unclenches his fingers and frowns sympathetically at it. 

“Sorry,” he says, “You can have the next room, I promise. Just… not this one.”

 _Bzz,_ it replies scornfully.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after stubbornly pushing all thoughts of Malfoy’s bedroom out of his mind and finishing off the second floor, Harry decides on a whim to take a break and wander outside into the late morning haze. Since stepping out of the said bedroom (the one that he is absolutely not thinking about), a strange, turbulent feeling has followed at his heels like an eager Crup, and he reasons that a bit of fresh air couldn’t hurt to shake it away.

For once in his life, his reasoning holds up; the crisp, grass-scented air of the backyard is like a refreshing glass of water on a hot day, and Harry breathes it in with greed. 

Nearly an hour later, he finds himself traipsing idly about the lush, neatly-trimmed gardens in the land behind the Manor, losing track of time a little more with each swell of blooming lavender and phlox he rounds. It’s quite a beautiful day — despite the nippy weather — as streaks of sunlight break through the nebulous clouds and warm Harry’s red-capped cheeks, casting the grounds in a gentle yellow film. 

Astonishingly, he hasn’t run into any other living creature since Gimly’s disappearance earlier that morning — he assumed Malfoy would take a break from his work at some point and come looking for Harry to make sure he wasn’t lighting the furniture on fire, but alas, the grounds are quiet. Eerily quiet. 

For a sweet, fleeting moment amid the purple and green stalks of flowers, Harry lets himself close his eyes and pretend that he’s alone — well and truly alone. That the quiet is welcome, comfortable. 

He imagines what it would be like if he’d grown up here in the Manor instead of Privet Drive, skating the tips of his fingers across velvety leaves and breathing so deeply that his lungs feel like they’re going to burst. He imagines waking up every morning in that king-sized bed piled with fleeces, trodding down the grand carpeted staircases in silky pajamas, drinking hot chocolate in the conservatory, sitting cross-legged in front of the drawing-room fireplace, running barefoot through the twisting labyrinth gardens.

He imagines his parents, too, even though he doesn’t really want to. It happens against his will, fleeting, conjured images of them flashing through his mind like a blurred movie reel. He imagines them sitting across from each other at the ornate breakfast table, clad in their dressing robes, and bent together over a copy of the _Prophet_ , looking up and smiling gently when a small, sleepy Harry comes in and asks for breakfast. 

He imagines flying high above the spiked rooftops of the Manor with his father trailing close behind, a goofy, proud smile plastered across his stubbled face as he teaches Harry how to tuck-and-roll. He imagines curling into his mother’s side on one of the plush couches in the library as she reads aloud from a book, one with moving pictures that Harry can look at until his young eyes grow heavy. He imagines falling asleep between the two of them as they lay out on the lawn under the vast, star-filled sky, the silhouettes of constellations printed onto the backs of his eyelids as he drifts into unconsciousness, bracketed by solid, loving warmth. 

He imagines, and imagines, and imagines until his mind is stretched so thin that he finds himself imagining the cold, stuffy walls of Privet Drive — except it’s not him who’s curled into a tight, shivering sphere in his cupboard under the stairs. Instead, it’s a scrawny boy with paper-white skin and ivory hair, legs drawn up to his chest, neck bent with his forehead pressing into the knees of his trousers as they soak up silent tears.

_I’d trade my childhood for yours in a heartbeat._

Harry’s eyes fly open; the spell is broken. 

And he wouldn’t. Not even the most privileged, blonde-haired prick west of Surrey deserves to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs, no matter what Harry would give to switch lives with him for a day.

 _Wake up, Potter,_ he scolds himself, yanking himself out of the residue of his daydream. He reminds himself firmly that this is the Manor where Voldemort held court and locked Muggleborns in dungeons, not the Manor in Harry’s mind.

He also reminds himself that he has a job to do. A job involving white-haired Malfoys and dark artifacts and mechanical ladybugs. 

Right. 

Suddenly disoriented, he blinks and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

When the dark spots eventually clear away, he finds himself face-to-face with a wall of thick, curling greenery, stretching above him into the high-noon sky. He turns, letting his gaze sweep the small bordered clearing, assessing the fact that, somehow, he’s managed to wander so deep into the gardens that he can no longer see the Manor. 

Sighing and cursing under his breath, he tugs his jacket closer around his torso and starts back in what he assumes to be the right direction, stepping around an overgrown thicket. The walk back isn’t long, but it certainly isn’t short, and he exits the hedge-maze in a different spot from where he entered. All around him, the chipper sounds of birdsong and crinkling leaves fill up his ears, along with the merry tinkling of a windchime somewhere in the distance.

Finally, after at least fifteen minutes of walking, the Manor comes into view, its pointed towers peeking through the rust-colored treetops and blotching the sky with opaque stone and grey shingles. Harry breathes a small sigh of relief, then decidedly re-directs his path towards the other section of the grounds, one that isn’t as neatly manicured, shrouded with clumps of reddish-orange trees. He spots Malfoy’s low-slung workshop almost immediately after emerging from the maze, taking note of the thin stream of smoke that curls out its teetering chimney.

Shaking away the last of his faint narcosis (Merlin, he’s pulled a Luna, hasn’t he?), he starts determinedly towards it, tugging his trusted invisibility cloak over his shoulders and casting a Silencing Charm on his shoes so they don’t crunch against the leaf-mottled floors. 

Before approaching the door, he pauses briefly and runs through his (admittedly short) list of options for keeping his cover. He only needs a minute or two inside the building, tops, in order to get a ladybug activated and secured in a place that will pick up any important dialogue — he just needs to find a way inside. He toys with the idea of just walking through the front door and letting Malfoy blame the wind, but the weather isn’t nearly blustery enough for that to fly. 

Locking his jaw sternly, he starts around the curved side of the building, keeping his eyes peeled for an alternative entrance. To his triumph, one of the deep-set windows is unlatched and swung outward, creaking gently in the dull breeze. 

He bites down on a victorious grin — _this is too easy_ — then sidles up to the window and pops up on his toes to peer inside, squinting through the dim atmosphere and making out the lamp-lit silhouette of Malfoy hunched over his workbench. 

The faint smell of burning wood and hot glass seeps through the stitching of the cloak, pressing against Harry’s sinuses and making his eyes water. He rubs them quickly, then tips his head to see what’s directly beneath the windowsill and if he’ll be able to climb in without breaking anything valuable. Sure enough, below the windowsill is the deep stone basin of a well-used sink, stained with a plethora of paint splotches and sporting a stack of used teacups, some of which have paintbrushes poking out of them. 

Steeling himself and flicking a glance up at Malfoy (whose back is to the window, thank Merlin) Harry clasps his hands around the lip of the windowsill and hauls himself up, satchel thumping against his leg. It’s an awkward maneuver to get his feet up on the wood panel without slipping, so he finds himself wavering forward to grab the shiny steel faucet head and brace himself while he swings his other leg up, knee scraping against the outer wall, folding himself into a gremlin-like crouch. 

Keeping one eye trained on the line of Malfoy’s back, Harry slowly shifts one foot into the basin of the sink then the other, careful to avoid knocking into the dirty teacups and making a scene. The soles of his shoes squeak against the damp stone, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to hear it; he remains bent over his table, head ducked and lit up in a shimmering gold halo of lamplight, clearly absorbed in his work. 

Releasing a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding, Harry straightens up and tightens his grip on his cloak. He feels somewhat ridiculous, standing stock-still in Malfoy’s dirty sink with the top of his head brushing against the slanted ceiling, but he doesn’t dwell on it; instead, he takes the moment to survey his surroundings and decide what exactly he needs to do next. 

The room is as cluttered as it was the day before, but this time there’s a pressurized warmth blanketing the space that can only be coming from the faintly-glowing kiln that sits adjacent to the sink. The smell of heated glass has increased tenfold, implying that whatever’s inside said kiln is either being melted or incinerated. Harry wants to cough the smell away, but he knows if he can help it then it’s not worth the risk of being discovered. 

Aside from the temperature and smell, there’s something else different about the room, and he can’t put his finger on it until he catches and holds his breath again. There, delicately, the low sound of music filters into his strained ears, pumping softly from somewhere near Malfoy’s bench; he thinks he recognizes it, but it's too soft to pick out any words. Snapshots of Muggle band posters flash momentarily against the backs of his eyelids as he blinks, and he shakes them away in favor of bracing one hand against the wall behind him.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself out of the sink, sucking in sharply at the clinking of ceramic as he accidentally misjudges his foot placement. He looks up sharply at Malfoy’s back, but it doesn’t move; in fact, it almost seems to draw away, shoulders curling as the blonde man hunches closer to the table. Harry recognizes it as the same posture Hermione folds herself into when she’s reading a particularly gripping book, which in her case is every book ever. It’s also her _fuck-off-I’m-busy_ posture, and if Harry didn’t know any better, he would guess that she learned it before she learned to walk. 

At the thought of his stern-faced, bushy-haired friend, he bites down a fleeting smile; he can practically hear her voice chiming in the back of his head, _“Oh, Harry, spying on Draco again? I thought you were done with all that! Silly boy.”_

And he is, indeed. Silly, silly boy. 

Casting another wordless Silencing Charm on himself for good measure, he creeps towards the row of shelves nearest to Malfoy and keeps one hand steady on the bulk of his satchel so the contents within don’t rattle. As soon as he’s close enough to see what the other man is working on — a set of glassware, by the looks of it — his eyes fall upon the source of the faint acoustic music. A record player encased with cracked brown leather sits near Malfoy’s elbow, spinning lazily and crackling with static. 

_Interesting,_ Harry thinks distantly, eyes fixed on the etched piece of vinyl. Malfoy _does_ listen to Muggle music. 

Ignoring the odd, warm sensation that prickles at his skin, Harry wrenches his gaze away and refocuses on the task at hand. The long workbench would arguably be the best spot to secure a ladybug, given that it’s in the center of the room and closest to Malfoy, but getting too close is risky even with the invisibility cloak. His next best option would be one of the shelving units that bracket the bench, preferably the one that’s posed directly in front of it and littered with jars of wood-stain and tubes of paint. 

Gingerly side-stepping a dilapidated grandfather clock, Harry moves towards the shelf, making sure to go around the opposite side so he can keep an eye on Malfoy through its slats without standing directly behind him. It’s a bit hard to make out exactly what he’s up to given the blockade of jars that sit at Harry’s eye-level, but when he stoops down to the shelf below, it all comes rapidly into focus. 

Sure enough, Malfoy’s hunched over a set of emulsified goblets that shine turquoise in the light of his tasseled desk lamp, wand clasped in hand and tracing the rim of one goblet in delicate circles. It looks like he’s casting some sort of modified _Reparo_ , as small strings of light are weaving out of the tip of his wand and tracing the cracks on the surface of the foggy glass, forming a glittering spiderweb of blue and green. It’s fascinating, and Harry finds himself tipping his head closer so he can get a better look, but freezes when his nose bumps unceremoniously into a half-empty beaker of white paint and sends it wobbling into the jar directly in front of it. The sound of glass against glass is, apparently, loud enough to catch Malfoy’s attention this time, as his head jerks up in faint surprise. 

Harry stops breathing. Malfoy’s sharp, pewter-grey eyes are pinned in his exact direction, eyebrows knit and creating a thin line in his pale forehead as he stares through the shelf. His white-blonde hair is tied in a knot at the back of his head, but several long strands have come undone and frame his face artistically, accentuating his long nose and narrow jaw.

To his horror, Harry also notices that he’s wearing earrings. Tiny, plain, silver stud earrings. 

_He can’t see me,_ Harry reminds himself in a quick, panicked, tone, every muscle in his body tensed as he stares into the face of his ex-schoolboy-rival. His teeth are clenched together, biting down hard on the insides of his cheeks to prevent him from doing something as idiotic as gasping at the revelation of jewelry. _He can’t see me, he can’t see me, he can’t see me-_

Malfoy lifts his wand from the rim of the goblet and sets it down, breaking the Mending Charm in favor of reaching his slim, bony hand towards the shelf. Harry feels his heart drop to his knees — _oh god, he can see me, he can see me, he can see me_ — too stunned to move. But, instead of plunging his hand through the gap in the shelf and yanking Harry’s cloak away, Malfoy simply curls his fingers around the jar an inch in front of Harry’s face and readjusts it back to its normal position. 

Harry has barely two seconds to process that he hasn’t been caught before Malfoy pulls his hand away and stands from his workbench, stool scraping against the stone floor. 

Remaining frozen, like a deer in headlights, Harry watches the slender man duck through the rows of shelves towards the kitchen-like area, expression unreadable. It isn’t until he’s stopped at the wide sink that Harry realizes he’s closing the window, because — obviously — the only plausible explanation for things moving on their own could be the breeze drifting in from outside. Right.

With conflicting feelings of relief and dismay coursing through him, Harry watches Malfoy lean over the sink and close the window with a firm _clack_ , effectively shutting Harry’s only emergency exit route. _Bollocks._

Malfoy, sharing none of the same concern, flips the latch on the windowsill and pushes away from the polished countertop, then pauses to roll his shoulders backward and stretch his arms over his head. The heather-grey knit jumper he’s wearing rides up, exposing a pale wedge of skin across his lower back; Harry swallows. 

After dropping his arms back down and tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, Malfoy appears to notice the heated kiln neighboring the sink, and he takes a deliberate stride towards it. Muttering what sounds like _“Protego Manibus”_ under his breath, a greenish sheen of light wraps around his hands like oven mitts, allowing him to safely pop the hood of the kiln and reach inside without getting burnt. From the basin, he pulls two clay bowls, glossed with the same turquoise as the goblets on his desk, and sets them face-down on a metal cooling rack. A quick _“Finite”_ breaks the Shield Charm on his hands, and he wipes them decidedly on the fronts of his black trousers before turning back towards his workbench, and, by extension, back towards Harry. 

Suddenly aware that he’s still crouched and squinting through the gaps in the shelf like a madman, Harry’s spine snaps straight and he takes a hasty step backward. Unsteady on his feet, he grabs the edge of a broken china cabinet behind him and digs his heels into the floor, breath coming up short. 

Completely unaware, Malfoy sits back down at his desk with a lofty sigh that Harry knows he isn’t meant to hear. He then picks up his wand and hunkers back down over the cracked goblets, casting _“Reparo Scyphus”_ and prompting the spindly blue webs of light to shoot out over the glass again. 

_Well,_ Harry thinks helplessly. That’s that. He’s stuck. Stuck in a small room with Draco Malfoy. Under an invisibility cloak. 

Fantastic.

Running his fingers restlessly through his unfamiliar straw-like fringe, Harry closes his eyes and tries to re-center himself. Off the top of his head, he can think of three plausible options: hope Malfoy re-opens the window, wait for him to leave through the front door, or take a flying risk and yank the window open himself. 

Okay, maybe only two plausible options. 

Taking deep, poignant breaths, he manages to slow his heart rate back to a normal pace and releases the china cabinet with some reluctance. It’s fine, he thinks. He’s going to be fine. He can wait an hour or two. Malfoy can’t possibly spend the entire day holed up in here, can he? No, no he can’t. He has to eat. And do… other things that humans do. 

Taking another sweeping glance around the room, Harry concludes that there’s no adjoining bathroom in the building unless it’s hiding away under a Fidelius Charm. Yes, Malfoy has to leave at _some point_. And when he does, Harry can just slip out behind him, easy-peasy. 

And he’s fine waiting, really — he’s been through enough week-long stakeouts during his Auror days to know how to occupy himself in the face of excess time. The only problem is that, with stakeouts, he usually came prepared. When he and Ron were partners, they would pack entire meals in their rucksacks, along with myriads of board-games and stacks of paperwork they needed to catch up on. Harry peeks hopefully inside his satchel, as if doing so will make all those things magically appear. He’s a wizard, isn’t he? 

Alas, there’s nothing inside except the small bag of ladybugs, his thermos of Polyjuice, his new Muggle mobile phone, a couple of tattered leather notebooks he’d brought just in case he needed to act studious, and the brown, wrinkled-up napkin from his breakfast muffin. Laboriously fighting back a frustrated grumble, he sticks his hand into the bag of ladybugs and plucks out a yellow one. He might as well finish what he came here to do in the first place.

After activating the tiny thing by tapping its speckled wings with the very tip of his wand, Harry crouches down and lets the ladybug flit out into the workshop from underneath the bottom of his cloak. It moves efficiently, weaving quietly into the air and nestling on top of a jar of ebony wood stain that sits on the shelf in front of Malfoy’s desk. _Good bug,_ Harry praises silently, thanking Merlin that it isn’t as fussy as some of the other ones have been.

Now that his one and only task has been completed, he’s not sure what to do with himself. Unfortunately, there are no cushy corduroy armchairs in sight that he can commandeer, meaning he’ll either have to spend the next few hours wandering the room, at risk of knocking something else over, or he’ll have to hunker down on the cold stone floor and resign himself to a future backache.

He takes the backache. The last thing he needs is to break some expensive, one-of-a-kind, ancient mirror and endure seven years of bad luck plus an awkward conversation with Malfoy about why exactly he’s sneaking around under an invisibility cloak. 

With a mental sigh, he backs up to a shuttered wardrobe and sinks down onto the hard floor, folding his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. He can still see Malfoy clearly through the cases of knick-knacks, face lit up with soft orange light from his lamp and hair falling into his face.

Christ, Malfoy. Always making things ten times harder without even trying.

When the blonde man sets his wand down again to flip the record he’s playing to its B-side, Harry tears his gaze away and buries his forehead into the small dip between his locked knees. 

He can do this.

All he has to do is wait.

* * *

As it turns out, Harry is proven wrong. Malfoy _can_ spend the entire day holed up in here — and that’s exactly what he does. 

For an insurmountable stretch of time, the grey-eyed git does nothing but sit at his bloody workbench and fix his bloody antiques, whistling along to the music from his bloody record player and paying no mind to the invisible man that is slumped on his floor and slowly going insane.

Harry tries not to make a fuss — he really does — but sitting on hard, cold, stone for three hours straight just does something to a person. He can’t help it. 

In an attempt to find some kind of comfort, he tries out a slew of different positions; he sits in criss-cross-applesauce until his tailbone hurts, curls into a ball on his side until his shoulder aches, lies flat on his back until he almost falls asleep. No matter what he does he ends up uncomfortable, and by the time the slivers of light streaming in from the windows have turned long and orange, every muscle in his body aches and there is sweat beading his forehead. 

The temperature under the cloak has been increasing tenfold with every passing hour, slowly squeezing every drop of oxygen from Harry’s lungs and nudging him towards an early death by asphyxiation. Twice, he’s had to replenish his Polyjuice disguise, wrinkling his nose as the wretched brew slides down his throat and clears his blurred vision. He supposes it’s not entirely necessary, given that Malfoy can’t see him, but he left his glasses at home and tends to get horrible migraines without them. Plus, if he’s going to get caught at any point, it might as well be under disguise so he doesn’t have to explain why Harry Potter is slumped on his floor and not Nicholas Rivers. 

Merlin, what a mess.

As bizarre as it sounds — and it sounds extraordinarily bizarre — the only thing keeping Harry marginally sane is Malfoy. 

He’s a good distraction, apparently. Harry supposes that he knew this already; Malfoy had spent about seven years with the sole purpose of distracting him, after all. But this is the first time it’s helped Harry rather than harm him. 

Throughout the course of the afternoon, he watches the blonde mend and polish at least six different sets of ancient-looking kitchenware, so absorbed in his work that he forgets to switch out the album on his record player after it spins out into silence. 

It should be boring, but somehow, it isn’t; the spells and charms he uses are ones Harry’s never heard of, and they’re mesmerizing to watch. Every flick of his long hawthorn wand is delicate and precise, washing the pieces with entire spectrums of bright, transient color and creating shimmering patterns on the ceiling and floor. 

Harry also notices that, after fixing up each set, Malfoy wraps them in thick parchment and levitates them into individual wooden crates, each one labeled according to color and material. He assumes that they’re meant to be sent out to the shop at some point, as there are prices painted onto the sides as well, small in font but not in expense. By the end of the day, the stack of crates is piled so high that it looks to stand taller than Harry, a feat that makes him frown and grumble insecurely under his breath. 

Finally — _finally_ — after the lid of the final crate has been sealed shut with a Sticking Charm, Malfoy pushes back from his workbench and stands, knees popping audibly. Harry, who is in the middle of a riveting cycle of tying and untying his shoelaces, lifts his head and scrambles to his feet with so much enthusiasm that he almost falls right back over. 

With a wide, contagious yawn, Malfoy cracks his neck and flicks the light of his desk lamp off, swathing the room in a welcome blanket of darkness. 

_Yes!_ Harry’s mind cries in rejoice, juxtaposed by the screaming of his muscles as he takes a stiff step forward. He ignores it, though, because all he can think about is that he’s going to make it out of this bloody building alive.

While Malfoy wraps up a few more things around the room, like shutting off the kiln and washing his slender hands over the sink, Harry bolts towards the front door. He only falters to let Malfoy pass him and yank the door open on his own accord, the light of the evening washing him in a deep golden hue. 

_Oh, daylight, how I’ve missed you,_ Harry thinks wistfully, slipping after him nimbly. His feet hit the grassy earth right as the door swings shut, almost bumping him on the arse. But he doesn’t care.

All at once, the smells and noises of the outside world come flooding back, and he wants to sob with relief. The sky above is shot with streaks of pink and orange, and the entire backyard is glowing with a delightful yellow and bronze. Malfoy is already striding determinedly back towards the Manor, strands of platinum fluttering around his ears and mulchy brown leaves crunching underfoot.

Remembering that he’s been added to the wards, Harry closes his eyes and pictures the front gates, then feels his stomach lurch as he Disapparates with a _crack_. It feels odd to leave the property without letting anyone know or saying goodbye to Gimly, but he’s honestly too sore to care. 

He lands with a fumble on the gravel pathway outside the front gates, a tingling sensation zipping down his spine from tearing through the wards. At least they’ll alert Malfoy of his departure — he can only cross his fingers and hope that no offense is taken. 

Ripping his dad’s cloak off with desperation, he lets the cool, airy breeze crash over his heated skin and ruffle his hair. Despite having done almost nothing all day, he can feel weariness dragging through his arteries and soaking into his bones, and he figures he should opt for the scenic route instead of Apparating straight into town to give his limbs a chance to re-activate. 

So, he walks. And thinks about Malfoy. Because he can’t really do anything else, can he?

Aching for someone to unload on, Harry digs the Muggle mobile phone out of his satchel and calls the only contact in its log. The second the dial tone stops ringing, he says, “I need a drink.”

There’s a long moment of static. Then, _“Long day?_

“You have no idea.”

Bates sighs through the receiver. _“I think I do. I’ve just spent mine in a meeting with Robards and all his head arseholes talking about ‘inter-department unity’.”_

“What?” Harry perks up. “Why?”

_“I couldn’t tell you. The meeting was called right before my lunch break, and we’ve only just ended. Personally, I think they’re prying for information about the case, ‘cause they spent the entire afternoon droning on and on about how Mysteries should be more open and cooperative with MLE since we’re all working towards the same goal.”_

“Merlin,” Harry replies with a frown. “What goal would that be?”

_“Peace. Law and order. Control.”_

“Since when has that been our goal?”

A faint snort. _“Apparently since we started taking up MLE’s dead-end undercover cases. I thought it was rather ridiculous, too.”_

Harry’s brow furrows, and he squints as the sun slowly dips beneath the treetops. “We’ve been picking up their undercover cases for years because we happen to have an Undercover Division, not because we’re part of the justice system. They know that.”

_“That’s what I said! But then that knob Fitzgerald started blaming the Ministry’s budget for not providing MLE with the resources for an Undercover Division.”_

At that, Harry scoffs incredulously. “Like they need any more bloody funding! Have you seen the Auror pay grade?”

 _“I have, and they certainly have no place to talk about budgeting.”_ She adds, smug: _“They’re just bitter that Mysteries is better than them.”_

“Clearly.” 

Bates laughs shortly. _“Anyway, Torres and I shut them down pretty fast. We agreed to be more ‘cooperative’ as long as they agreed to be less arrogant with their investigations. We can’t keep picking up the pieces of cases they shatter.”_

Harry feels a flare of pride swell in his chest at the idea of his partner standing up to Robards — it’s about time someone did. “No, we can’t,” he agrees with a small smile. “That was brave of you.”

_“Bravery requires stupidity, so thanks, but no. I’ve been drafting this shit in my head since day one. It was necessary to put them in their place.”_

“Absolutely. What did Robards say to that?”

She sucks in an audible breath. _“I won’t lie, he wasn’t ecstatic at the idea of being pushed around. But Torres pointed out that that’s exactly what they’ve been doing to us, and she has a right to disregard MLE if it’s for the wellbeing of her department. He backed down after that, but the lot of them still want answers about the case.”_

“Or, they just want Malfoy locked up for good,” Harry amends, mood faltering. A gust of wind knocks into him, so he burrows his chin into the collar of his jacket. 

_“That too. But he’s our responsibility now, and he’s not getting locked up unless we find some evidence that he’s involved.”_

“Which he isn’t.”

She makes a curious humming noise. _“Have you found anything?_

“Well, that’s just it,” Harry replies, slow but earnest. “I haven’t found a single thing. All the Weasley ladybugs are set up for surveillance, but I know for a fact that all Malfoy did today was sit in his workshop and fix antiques. Nothing more.”

_“You’re sure?”_

“Completely sure.”

_“Well, that’s good news, then. And the ladybugs are secured over every Floo outlet?”_

Harry hesitates, reluctant to lie to his partner, but also reluctant to tell her that he got scared of Malfoy’s weirdly normal bedroom and bolted before he could set one up. “Yes.” Then, for the sake of masking the waver in his voice, he changes the subject; “Why were there so many Floos in the first place? It took me hours to get through all of them.”

Bates hums again. _“I’m not really sure, but I know all pureblood estates have been like that for centuries. You could probably find out why if you picked up a book and tried to learn anything about your fake degree.”_

Harry tilts his head, ignoring the light jab. “I’ve been meaning to do that, actually. You wouldn’t happen to have any books on magical architecture lying around, would you?”

_“Unfortunately, no, but fortunately, you have access to the largest library in Britain at all times. You do know what a library is, don’t you? Those big rooms with lots of books?”_

“Ha ha,” he replies sarcastically, letting his eyes roll skyward.

 _“Serious question, Green.”_ Except Harry can hear the jingle in her voice that signifies silent laughter.

“Yes, I know what a library is. But thank you for reminding me.”

 _“My pleasure.”_ She pauses. _“Anyways, we’ve gotten off-track. You were saying you needed a drink?”_

“Ah,” Harry says flatly. “Yes, I was.”

_“Because of Malfoy…?”_

Yes. No. He doesn’t know. It’s more Malfoy’s floor that he’s irritated with than Malfoy himself. 

“More or less,” he answers. Bates waits for him to elaborate, but he suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to talk about how he’d sat under his invisibility cloak for four hours and wasted almost an entire day of work. Instead, he says, “Did you know he wears earrings?”

_“Sorry, what?”_

“Malfoy,” Harry repeats, “He wears earrings. And rings, too.”

 _“Does he, now?”_ She sounds amused, and he doesn’t blame her. 

“Yes! Little silver ones. The stud kind, not the dangly kind.”

A beat passes, and Harry can tell that she’s holding back a bout of laughter. _“Is that all?”_

Harry’s jaw drops open. “What do you mean, ‘is that all?’ He’s Draco Malfoy! Draco Malfoys don’t wear bloody _earrings_.”

_“Well, apparently they do. What does this have to do with the investigation?”_

“Wh—” Harry twists his mouth into a scowl. “Nothing, I guess.”

_“Nothing?”_

“Nothing!”

_“Glad that’s settled, then.”_

“I’m sure you are,” he grumbles lamely.

A chuckle. _“Go home, Green. Relax. Make yourself some pasta, or something. Malfoy and his earrings will be there for you to scrutinize tomorrow.”_

“How do you know?” The minute the words leave his mouth he realizes how childish they sound, but he can’t bring himself to take them back. 

Still, Bates tolerates it. _“I don’t,”_ she says with sudden, exasperated honesty. _“But I do think the odds are in our favor.”_

Harry stops walking for a moment and looks over his shoulder. He can still see the Manor, a black ink-blot against a darkening horizon, but it’s much smaller now. Small enough to pinch between his fingers; to crush under his thumb into nothing but dust and splinters. 

“Yeah,” he replies after a long pause. “I think so, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning, Harry walks into a bookshop.

He doesn’t mean to, really, it just sort of happens. His feet have minds of their own. However, once he’s inside, sheltered from the gentle sting of late October rainfall, he doesn’t bother dwelling on how or why he got there. The crisp smell of ink and paper combined with the subdued thrum of a radiator is enough to keep him in place, shoes sinking into the patterned, cream-colored welcome mat while the heavy glass door clicks shut behind him. 

“Good morning,” says the girl standing behind the till with a smile, a twenty-something-year-old Muggle with choppy hair, square glasses, and a checkered sweater-vest. “Welcome in.”

“Morning,” Harry nods back at her pleasantly, brushing away the droplets of water that cling to his shoulders then sweeping his gaze around the low-ceilinged shop. Several other middle-aged customers mill contentedly about, perusing the overstuffed shelves and carrying multi-colored stacks of books in their arms. The overhead lighting is tawny and welcoming, battling away the blustering, thunderous weather, and draping over Harry like a warm blanket. 

“Do you mind if I take that off your hands for the time being? We don’t allow food or drinks in here.”

He looks back at the front counter, where the short-haired girl is leaning on her forearms and tipping her head at the coffee cup in his hands. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“No worries.” She smiles again, rosy-cheeked, and he notices that she has a light American accent. “It’s just a policy we have to keep people from spilling their breakfasts all over the books. I can keep an eye on it while you browse if you’d like.”

“Alright,” Harry replies, floorboards creaking under his boots as he approaches the register and sets the paper cup down. Mrs. Plum insisted, yet again, that he was too skinny for his own good, and had thrust a large sugary latte into his hands that morning before giving him a chance to race out the front door. “Do people spill their breakfasts here often?” 

“Not since we stopped them from bringing them inside, no.” She takes the cup from him and ducks away to set it somewhere below the surface of the counter.

“But before?” Harry prods conversationally.

“We don’t talk about before.” She straightens back up and props herself back onto her forearms. The plastic name card pinned to her vest reads: _Hi! My Name Is: Jenna._ “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

 _Good question,_ he thinks. Then, the dim spark of an idea ignites in the back of his head. “Yes, actually. Do you have anything on architecture? Or art history?” 

“Boy, do we,” she confirms, pointing a painted fingernail at a shelf over Harry’s shoulder. “That whole area there is the history section; arts and culture is around the corner. That’ll be your best bet.”

Harry follows her finger, then grants her a quick “Thanks” before shoving his hands into his pockets and slipping away into the maze of books. 

Bates had been right when she’d pointed out Harry’s extreme lack of historical knowledge, and while he isn’t going to find any books about wizarding history in this quaint little shop, he could at least start the process by brushing up on his Muggle history. Bates recommended checking out the Ministry library, better known as the largest library in all of Britain, but he’d much rather stop by the post office and owl Hermione instead. If she doesn’t already own any books on architectural wizarding history, then at least she can make a day of going to the library and selecting them herself. Of course, he won’t be able to tell her _why_ he needs those books, but he has a feeling she’ll be too surprised by the prospect of him reading voluntarily to demand a forthright explanation. 

The history section is remarkably dense, taking up an entire bordered nook of the bookshop and covering everything from the Paleolithic Age to modern politics, and the arts and culture section is even denser. An entire wall is dedicated solely to Modern Art, divided up meticulously into French Modern, American Modern, Mexican Modern, and it hurts Harry’s head just to look at.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to find books that are specifically centered around architecture, and even when he does, he has no idea which to pick up. The books he chooses are thick and hard-covered, the pictures within embellished in full color, and they dig uncomfortably into his arms. He picks up titles like _Experiencing Architecture, The Beauty of Brunelleschi’s Dome, The Pantheon: Explained,_ and _Breaking Down Baroque_ until he can no longer feel his forearms and is sure that he’s found all he can on old European architecture. 

Hi-My-Name-Is-Jenna does a poor job of hiding her laughter when he comes stumbling up to the register twenty minutes later, books stacked up to his chin, and she asks rather flippantly if he “needs a bag?”

The minute he’s back outside, raindrops pummeling the hood of his crinkly maroon windbreaker, he ducks into an alley and shrinks the heavy load of books so small that they can all fit neatly inside his rucksack. He doesn’t plan on stopping back by his flat before heading to the Manor, and if he’s going to get stuck spying on Malfoy from under his invisibility cloak again, he might as well bring some reading material along. 

Beyond the alley, the streets of Tisbury are muddy and slick with rainwater, smelling of damp pavement and flattened grass, and the very few people that have ventured outside the safety of their dry homes are scampering along the sidewalks like anxious field mice, gripping onto their hoods and umbrella handles for dear life. The charming, pointed roofs of restaurants and townhouses droop under the weight of the weather, shingles ringing with every drop that bounces off them. 

He does his best to blend in with the harried locals by keeping his head down as he slips out onto the main street, shoes squelching loudly as he falls into step behind a broad-shouldered man wearing a canary yellow rain jacket. Then, just as he’s stepping off the curb and about to cross the blinking intersection, he hears someone yell, “Hey, architecture boy! Wait up!”

He frowns, then turns on the curb to find Hi-My-Name-Is-Jenna, now carrying a wide, polka-dotted umbrella over her shoulder, striding briskly towards him with misty glasses, Harry’s extra-large latte in one hand. “You forgot this,” she says when she eventually catches up to him, holding the paper cup out while protecting it with the shade of her umbrella.

Harry wants to laugh at the absurdity of it — the coffee has got to have gone cold by now — but tries for a grateful smile instead and accepts the (yep, cold) cup from her. “How stupid of me. Thank you.”

“No problem,” she replies easily, then wipes the frames of her glasses and gives him a quirky two-fingered salute. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice that Harry’s entire hefty purchase has disappeared into thin air, as she turns back to the bookshop without another word. 

“Have a good day,” Harry calls after her retreating figure. 

“Ditto!” She gives him one last smile over her shoulder before dodging inside, and just as the glass door is swinging shut, Harry sees it. 

Nestled between the warmly-lit bookstore and an edgy-looking tattoo parlor is, to Harry’s astonishment, Atlantis Antiques. 

He’s not sure how he missed it before — the windows are wide and welcoming, and the awning is a deep forest green color, starkly different from the others that line the street — but now he can’t look away. A tin sign on the front door reads _Sorry, We’re Closed!_ and all the lights are darkened, so he can’t get a good look at the inside. The displays directly inside the windows are impressive enough, though; a staged assortment of polished mahogany tables and velvet-upholstered chairs perch just beyond the rain-dappled glass, and Harry recognizes a few from Malfoy’s workshop, only much more put-together.

The Unspeakable part of him wants to unlock the front door with a muttered _Alohomora_ so he can get a closer look at the contents inside, but the non-Unspeakable part of him decides that that wouldn’t be the best idea. He’s already filled his weekly breaking-and-entering quota. 

With a slight shake of his head, he comes back to himself, prying his gaze away from the darkened windows and starting again towards his unofficial Apparition point. It shouldn’t be that surprising, anyways — Malfoy said he owned a shop in Tisbury, and he had no reason to lie. Maybe seeing it in person just confirms Harry’s suspicions further — that the man he’s dealing with is not the same one from Hogwarts whatsoever. He’s not Draco Malfoy the Ex-Death Eater anymore; he’s Draco Malfoy the shop-owner. The sooner Harry can drill that into his head — and the Ministry, too, for that matter — the better.

He Apparates to the Manor the minute he’s ducked out of sight into his lane behind the row of handsome cottages, feeling the now-familiar tingle of wards tickle his skin as he lands halfway down the long gravel drive. 

The rain has somewhat abated given the protective canopy of neatly-trimmed trees overhead, but he’s still soaking wet by the time he makes it to the front doors. He casts a thorough Drying Charm and shakes the water from his mop of unruly hair, remembering Malfoy’s warning that Gimly would hex anyone who trekked water inside. 

Then, just as he’s about to raise his hand and tug one door open, a flash of blonde catches his peripheral eye and he stops in his tracks entirely. There, beyond the shelter of the covered portico and bent over a bed of budding white flowers, is the blonde-haired devil himself. 

Harry does a double-take, because he’s obviously imagining things. Malfoy isn’t actually standing in the middle of a perennial garden in pouring rain, a cluster of silvery flowers gripped in one hand while his other reaches down to pluck another from the soft, damp earth, is he? 

A slender, soil-caked hand reaches up to brush long, platinum hair away from a forehead. Definitely Malfoy. Harry’s jaw unhinges.

As the lean, spindly-legged man straightens back up and adds the newly picked flower to the bouquet in his hands, he too catches sight of Harry through the alabaster colonnade, and — as if things couldn’t possibly get any weirder — he smiles amicably through the rain and waves. Like they’re friends.

“Merlin, aren’t you freezing?” Harry blurts before he can think better of it, coming to stand on the lip of the porch and bracing one hand against a carved column. 

Malfoy adjusts the flowers in his arms and steps over a tall lavender bush, drawing closer to the Manor so he doesn’t have to yell his reply: “Not particularly, no.”

Harry squints, then wipes at his eyes as a gust of wind knocks the rain in his direction. When he recovers, he finds Malfoy bending over again, this time to pluck curiously at a bright yellow carnation. Harry can’t help but take note of his pressed black slacks and sandy brown cable-knit jumper layered over a crisp collared shirt, both of which are rolled casually up to his elbows and exposing two long strips of pale, supple skin, one of which is stained with familiar black ink. 

“How in the world are you not freezing your arse off?” asks Harry, determined not to let his gaze linger.

“Ever heard of an Impervius?” 

“Of course I have, I just— are you really gardening right now? In this weather?” 

“Of course not,” Malfoy says. As he tugs the carnation out of the ground, he looks up again and shoots Harry a wildly incredulous look. “That would be silly. I’m picking flowers to turn into fabric dye. Tapestries, you know?”

“Tapestries,” Harry parrots faintly. “For your work?”

Malfoy nods, and now that he’s closer, Harry can see the faint shimmer of an Impervius Charm suspended around him like a bubble. His hair is tied up again, this time into a low ponytail that reminds Harry eerily of Lucius. Only he doesn’t look slimy or greasy, or even much like Lucius; he just looks… pointy. Elongated. “That’s right.”

“Any reason why you’re picking them right now?”

Malfoy shrugs. “I like the rain.” 

“Oh,” says Harry. He likes the rain, too, but only when he’s tucked on an armchair inside his flat, feet pulled up under a warm knitted afghan and hands clutching a hot mug of green tea or cocoa, listening to the meditative pitter-patter of water against his living room window. He doesn’t exactly enjoy standing in it wearing nothing but a wool jumper, soaked to the bone and shivering like a leaf. 

“Would you like to come in for tea? I’m almost finished out here.”

Harry blinks, water clinging to his eyelashes, startled a bit by Malfoy’s friendliness. “Alright,” he says, “As long as I’m not intruding on your work day.”

“Nonsense,” Malfoy replies dismissively, adjusting the bouquet in his arms and stepping up onto the colonnade, “I was going to make some for myself anyway. Trust me, I’d let you know if you were intruding.”

 _Would you?_ Harry thinks bitterly, swallowing the lump of discomfort that’s lodged itself in the back of his mouth. “Right, okay.”

They walk together in relative silence through the dim halls of the Manor, Malfoy leading a few steps ahead of Harry whose boots are squelching embarrassingly against the stone floors. Desperate to distract himself from the penetrating gazes of the bloody portraits on the walls, Harry suppresses a grimace and speaks up conversationally; “So, you make your own dye?”

Malfoy glances back as if puzzled by Harry’s sudden interest, but nods anyway. “I do, yes.”

“How does that work?”

“Well,” Malfoy starts, steps slowing so he and Harry are on the same plane.“There are a few different methods, but I’ve found the Muggle way to be the easiest. You have to crush up the petals and boil them in water before straining them, so all the pigment stays behind, then freeze the water for a few days before using it to dye any fabric.”

“Oh,” Harry says, subtly impressed. “That sounds… tedious.”

Malfoy lifts a shoulder. “It can be, but I don’t mind. Most of the tapestries I restore were made using organic dyes in the first place, and it would be a disservice to them to use any other kind.”

“I see,” Harry nods, even though he doesn’t really understand. “Couldn’t magic speed up the process, though?”

Unexpectedly, Malfoy laughs. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no, the magical methods are much more time-consuming and precise. Using them would be a waste of my time.”

“Strange,” says Harry, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Malfoy just casually declared a form of magic to be insufficient. “Is it like making a potion?”

“Exactly like making a potion,” Malfoy confirms, then turns a corner decisively.

To Harry’s surprise, they end up in the smaller of the two kitchens instead of the lounge, Malfoy dumping his bright bouquet of flora into a tall glass jar and setting it on a windowsill where it can soak up what little sunlight is diffusing through the heavy rain clouds. Gimly is nowhere in sight as he rinses his dirt-covered hands in the sink and sets to work heating the kettle, looking over his shoulder briefly to ask Harry if he could grab two cups from the cupboard above his head. 

It’s astonishing, at first, to watch Malfoy do something so normal and mundane when he could just snap his fingers and get Gimly to do it much quicker, but he doesn’t even stop to take out his wand, filling the copper kettle with water from the tap and lighting the stove manually. Harry then remembers that Malfoy had gone an entire year without magic after the war, so of course he’d had to learn how to do normal things without it. Normal things like making tea. 

“I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” the blonde says out of nowhere as he dries his hands on a patterned tea towel, back facing Harry. 

Harry’s hands freeze around the handles of two striped mugs, one green and one blue. “What for?” he asks slowly.

“For being a terrible host,” Malfoy replies. “I meant to make myself available should you have any questions, but I’m afraid I lost track of time in my workshop. You’d left by the time I finished.”

“Oh,” Harry says, turning away from the cupboard, keeping his eyes on the mugs in his hands to avoid making direct eye contact. He has a feeling he might snap in half if he does otherwise. “You don’t need to apologize. You were busy. And Gimly was there if I had any questions.”

“Yes, but still,” Malfoy says, and the strain in his voice causes Harry to chance a look at him. He’s leaning against the counter now, stovetop flickering beside him, and his eyes are trained somewhere on the ground. His Impervius must have been somewhat wobbly, because the hair under his ears and around the back of his neck is darkened with water and curling at the edges. “It was rude of me.”

Harry takes a moment to dwell on how strange this is — standing in Malfoy’s kitchen, listening to him apologize without meeting his eyes — and decides that he’s being ridiculous. That Malfoy is ridiculous. 

“It’s not a big deal, I promise. I had a fine day exploring the grounds on my own,” he says with renewed sincerity, holding the mugs out for Malfoy to take. 

Malfoy glances warily at them, then slumps his shoulders and accepts them as if he’s accepting an olive branch. Which he sort of is, in a way — Harry just never thought it would be extending from his end. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “No hard feelings. Really.”

“No hard feelings,” Malfoy echoes. The kettle goes off.

While he turns back around to finish fixing the tea, Harry props himself on the square counter in the center of the room and leans against his forearms, watching patiently. Malfoy’s sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, faded Dark Mark fully on display, but he doesn’t seem to care enough to roll them back down. Maybe that would be different if Harry were Harry and not Nicholas. 

No, scratch that, it would absolutely be different. Without a doubt.

There’s a soft clink of ceramic and metal, and Malfoy asks quietly over his shoulder, “Milk?”

“Please.”

A steaming mug is placed in front of him a minute later, slender, silver-studded fingers slipping off the handle. It’s the green one. He hums curiously, then wraps his own fingers around it. “You didn’t want this one?”

Malfoy pulls up a wooden stool opposite Harry, sitting with his back so straight that it looks borderline painful. “Pardon?”

Harry lifts his mug. “The green one.”

“Why would I want the green one?”

“I don’t know. Slytherin pride?”

Malfoy looks down at his own mug, a small frown on his face. “That didn’t even occur to me. I suppose I’ll have to settle with Ravenclaw.”

“Ravenclaw isn’t bad.”

“Certainly not.” He flicks a glance at Harry, tracing his pointer finger idly across one of the dark blue ceramic stripes. “Are you alright with Slytherin, or shall I spell it red and gold for you?”

Harry smiles, but it feels wan. “Slytherin isn’t bad, either.”

Something flashes in Malfoy’s eyes. “No,” he agrees slowly, “but half of Britain would beg to differ.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to this, because on a normal day, he would be part of that half. Instead, without thinking, he blurts, “I was almost in Slytherin, so I reckon I’m biased.” 

Malfoy freezes, mug halfway to his mouth. “Were you really?”

Harry wants to take it back. He’s never told anyone that before. It was the one secret of his that he figured he would take to the grave. But his mouth and his brain are at odds, apparently, and he replies, “I was.”

“Oh,” Malfoy says. “How very odd.”

“Yes, it was.”

“May I ask why you weren’t?”

“Sorted into Slytherin?” 

“Yes.”

Harry knows exactly why, but he doesn’t fancy giving away too much. Not today. “I’m not really sure. I just kind of… decided not to be.”

Malfoy’s pale eyebrows shoot up. “The Sorting Hat gave you a choice?”

“In a way, yes.”

Malfoy cocks his head, and a lock of hair slips from behind his ear. Harry has the unexplainable, terrifying impulse to reach out across the kitchen island and tuck it back in place. “That’s remarkable. I was told I’d do well in Ravenclaw, but I didn’t get an ultimate choice.”

Harry blinks. “ _You?_ In Ravenclaw?”

“Mm. I believe it had something to do with my sharp wit, but I don’t remember exactly.”

“Ah,” Harry says, trying to mask his utter shock with a strangled sip of tea. “I can see that.”

“Yes, well.” Malfoy pointedly looks away. “Whatever it was, it wasn’t strong enough. I still ended up…”

He falls silent, gaze fixed on the window over the sink. The soft thrum of rain fills the void he leaves behind, but Harry doesn’t mind. He understands. Sort of. 

“Do you think things would have been different?” he asks, keeping his voice gentle as he focuses on the other man’s narrow profile, cheekbones cut with a wedge of dull light. “If you’d been in Ravenclaw, I mean.”

The rain grows louder.

“Yes. I think things would have been very different. But that hardly matters now.” 

When Harry doesn’t offer a rebuttal, Malfoy looks back at him. His steel-colored gaze is overlaid with something heavy and tenebrous; something that shakes Harry to his core, reminding him of exactly who this man is and what he’s capable of.

“I did what I did, and I paid the price for it,” he says. “I’d go back and change it all if I could, but at the same time, I wouldn’t.”

At that, something in Harry’s chest squeezes. “Why not?” he asks, voice low, and he feels like he’s prying open a cast-iron box that’s been locked for years. Five years, to be exact. 

“Because,” Malfoy replies, knuckles turning as white as his hair as he grips patterned ceramic, “I’d have to live through it all again. I can’t do that. I’d never do that.”

It’s far too early to be having this conversation. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees with a slight nod. “I wouldn’t, either.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows cinch together. “You fought in the war?” he asks, tone slipping, words uneven. 

And- oh. No, he wouldn’t have. Nicholas Rivers wouldn’t have. Not if he was a fifth-year when the Battle of Hogwarts occurred. “No, I didn’t. But I had friends who did.”

He thinks of Fred. Of Remus. Tonks. _Friends who died._

Malfoy’s expression dulls to sleet, colder than the storm battering his kitchen windows. Clearly, he hears Harry’s unspoken words. He sees them. “Right,” he says, and his voice tremors. “Of course you did.”

Harry wonders if he sees their faces, too. If he feels that same dagger of guilt in the center of his chest, one that sinks deeper and twists with every name, every memory, images shattered by something far larger than both of them. And if not, Harry wonders who he sees instead. If he sees Crabbe, or Bellatrix, or Lucius. 

He doesn’t ask. Instead, he lifts his cup and takes a sip, averting his eyes towards the blurred shapes of the backyard and allowing the hot liquid to soothe his inflamed nerves. Outside, raw, vicious wind slaps against the trunks of manicured trees; reddish-brown leaves saddled with rainwater sink low to the earth, curving their branches and threatening to snap off as they battle the downpour. Distantly, a wind chime sings. 

“My mother is living on a chestnut farm in Rhône-Alpes,” Malfoy speaks up after a long beat. “She sends me letters, sometimes, telling me how wonderful it is. How easy she has it.”

Harry looks back at him, but the blonde is staring out the window in the same direction, mouth pinched. 

“She tells me that French weather is far better than English weather. That it rains half as less, and when it does, it’s not the angry kind of rain that happens here.”

Harry’s not sure why Malfoy is telling him this, but something about the way he’s holding himself — the taut line of his shoulders, the crease in his forehead — is enough to make Harry stop and listen. Take a breath. 

“Angry rain?” he prompts.

Malfoy gestures toward the window. “Angry rain. ‘Unfriendly’, according to my mother. She thinks the rain in France is much more amicable. I’ve told her a hundred times that I don’t mind it here, but she doesn’t listen. She asks me to join her every time she writes to me.”

“Why don’t you?”

Now, Malfoy meets Harry’s gaze, tearing his eyes away from the window. “She left England the night after our trial,” he says, expression unreadable. “She begged for me to come with her, but I told my father before he was sentenced that I’d take care of the Manor. And of her. That was his only request.” 

Harry doesn’t trust himself enough to say anything, so he doesn’t. 

Malfoy continues; “What he failed to realize is that my mother does not need to be taken care of. For so long, he thought that responsibility was on his shoulders, but it wasn’t. He needed her more than she needed him. He was too stubborn to accept that. Too proud.” He sucks in an audible breath. “The Manor, on the other hand, needed him. So I took his place.”

 _Because anything your father asks of you, you’ll do,_ Harry thinks sourly as images of Malfoy and his father slide into focus behind his eyelids, their sneers identical and their postures rigid. _Even if he was buried in the ground four years ago._

Out loud, he says, “I see.”

Evidently, this is the wrong thing to say, because Malfoy deflates. “I’m sorry,” he says into his tea, “I’m treating you like a Mind Healer.”

Harry frowns. “You’re not. And I don’t mind.”

“Yes, but you still shouldn’t have to listen to me,” the other man replies. “That’s not what you’re here for. I’m just whining. If you need to go take your notes then, please, don’t let me keep you.”

Oh, but that’s exactly what Harry’s here for.

Malfoy stands, chair legs scraping noisily against the polished floor, and Harry stops him with a heavy hand on his forearm. “Hang on,” he says, and the place where brown skin meets white sparks with muted electricity. “I really don’t mind. My notes can wait.”

Malfoy looks at Harry’s hand skeptically; their difference in skin tone is stark, polarizing. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. It’s not like your house is going anywhere, and that’s what I’m here to study. It can wait.” Harry releases the milky-white arm, noticing a fraction too late that it’s the one marred with discolored grey ink. When Malfoy doesn’t immediately retake his seat, Harry picks up his half-empty mug and gestures with it. “Tell me about your mother.”

Reluctantly, Malfoy sits. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything at all. She sounds—” Harry pauses, searching for the right word; “—liberated.”

Malfoy gazes at him for a long-winded moment, then nods. “She’s the strongest person I know.”

Harry lifts his brow. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Even though she abandoned you to go live on a farm in France?”

Malfoy jerks his head sharply. “She did not _abandon_ me. She made a calculated decision in the best interest of her health, and I’m happy for her. France treats her kindly, and she deserves it that way.”

“I’m sure she does. But it doesn’t sound all that peachy if she’s begging you to move in with her,” Harry points out.

Malfoy scowls. “She knows I have to stay with the Manor, and not once has she attempted to drag me across the Channel against my will. If she truly wanted me there, she would do just that.”

“You’re her son. Of course she wants you there.”

“No, she thinks she wants me there, but trust me. I’m much better off here. The Manor needs me.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t need anyone. Keep up, Rivers.”

Harry’s lips quirk at the use of his faux surname. It means they’ve re-entered safer territory. “I don’t think you should write her off that easily, Malfoy,” he rebukes, folding his arms on the countertop and leaning forward. “Lots of people act like they don’t need anyone for the sake of keeping up appearances, but that’s not always their reality. Everyone needs someone in some way or another. They may not be dependent on anyone, but that doesn’t mean they should have zero support.”

Malfoy presses his thin, pink mouth into a straight line. “Are you sure you’re not a Mind Healer? That’s an awfully Mind Healer-y thing to say.”

“I think I would have noticed if I was,” Harry replies, amused. In truth, he picked up that bit of wisdom from Hermione way back when she’d recognized the same stubborn attitude in him. Once upon a time, he'd been adamant about living alone and accepting help from no one, too worried that if anyone got close to him they’d be ripped away from him as if the war never ended. But Hermione, ever the voice of reason, convinced him that he was allowed to need people. Allowed to need support. 

He continues, looking pointedly at Malfoy; “It’s just human nature. Nature in general, really — people supporting people.”

“I suppose so. But my mother isn’t just any human.”

“Afraid she is. What’s so important about the Manor that you have to choose between it or her?”

“You tell me,” Malfoy challenges, mirroring Harry and leaning forward over his tea. “Mr. Architect.”

Harry smiles tediously, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin on them. “The Manor is beautiful, but it will remain beautiful under any ownership. It doesn’t have to be you.”

“This house has been in my family for over a millennium,” Malfoy contends pompously. “I’m not selling it anytime soon, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“So, let your house-elves take it over until some other rich family does,” Harry suggests. 

“I can’t even begin to explain to you how horrible of an idea that is.” Malfoy’s eyes narrow. “Weren’t we supposed to be talking about my mother?”

“We are,” replies Harry serenely. “If you want to live with her, nothing’s stopping you. Didn’t you tell me just the other day that you thought the Manor was dreadful?”

“I did. But that has nothing to do with my responsibility of running it.”

“Running it for who? Last I checked, I’m the only guest you’ve had here in a while.”

Malfoy sniffs shortly in offense. “How self-centered of you.”

“Part-Slytherin,” Harry reminds.

“Oh, piss off.”

Harry’s mouth twitches, and he goes on. “It’s not a criticism — I’m simply trying to point out that your upkeep of the Manor is self-serving at best. If you’re truly unhappy here, why stick it out?”

Malfoy takes a poignant sip of tea. “You don’t know me.”

 _On the contrary, I know you far too well._ “No, I don’t. But I’d like to.”

The blonde looks up, needlelike gaze pinning Harry to his spot. “Would you?”

Harry swallows. He feels like he’s taking a risk — toes hanging over the edge of an unseen cliff — and he has no idea why. “I would.”

The stare lingers. “Well,” Malfoy says eventually. “That’s something, then.”

He stands, plucking his mug from the countertop and sidling over to the sink. Harry falters. “Where are you going?”

With a wave of his hand, Harry’s now-empty mug zips into the air and settles under the faucet right next to Malfoy’s. “You want to know me?” the slender man asks, circumventing the question and flicking the tap on so a steady stream of water gushes out.

“I just said I did.” 

“And you want to know why I won’t leave the Manor?”

“Yes.” Harry furrows his brow. “What are you getting at?”

Malfoy turns the faucet off and sets their rinsed mugs on a metal rack. He turns, and his gaze is so sharp that Harry can feel it pierce his skin and sink into his flesh. His knee-jerk reaction is to check himself and make sure he’s not bleeding, but he refrains, meeting Malfoy with what he hopes is an even stare. 

“I’ll show you why,” Malfoy finishes, and suddenly he’s pushing out of the lofty kitchen, dragonhide clicking on stone, leaving Harry stranded with his mouth parted in confusion as the door creaks on its hinges. 

Rain hammers at the window over the sink. 

Malfoy sticks his platinum head back in. Raises one eyebrow.

“Well?”

* * *

The East Wing is barricaded by an unassuming cinder wall overlaid with long, lustrous tapestries of woven hills and embroidered centaurs, knights in glimmering chain mail, villages with smoke curling from chimneys. Harry recognizes them vaguely — he must have walked past them during his excursion the day before — but that doesn’t stop a look of confusion from seeping over his face. He opens his mouth to ask Malfoy what exactly they’re doing here, but the other man stops him with a stern finger.

“Wait.”

Harry clamps his jaw shut and looks away, noting with irritation that this is the second time Malfoy has managed to shut him up with a single syllable. _You’re losing your touch, Potter,_ that heinous voice in the back of his head chides, and he shoves it away. 

Malfoy murmurs something in Latin and the tapestries part like the Red Sea, revealing a rectangular hole in the wall just big enough for an average-sized person to duck through. Beyond it lies only darkness, still and unthreatening, but creepy nonetheless. 

“Go on, then,” Malfoy says, brandishing his hand towards the aperture. 

Harry shoots him a dubious look, but brushes past him anyway and sticks a foot through the hole in the wall. He’s a Gryffindor, after all; it’s in the job description to stick his limbs in places they probably shouldn’t go. 

The hole turns out to be an unusually narrow hallway that leads to, surprise surprise, more darkness. But just as he’s considering turning around, he hears the rustle of clothing and feels the heat of Malfoy coming up behind him and nearly running him over.

“Keep going,” his smooth accent says into the blackness, damp breath in Harry’s ear, and Harry mentally curses his Polyjuiced body for not being a few inches taller. He doesn’t move right away, uncertain of what may lie directly ahead, then nearly jumps out of his skin as cold, slender fingers press insistently against his lower back.

 _“Lumos,”_ Malfoy’s disembodied voice murmurs, and suddenly the space is flooded with hazy blue light.

“Christ,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes as colorful blotches of light spring up behind his lids and staggering away from Malfoy’s ghostlike touch. When he eventually pulls his hands away, blinking the spots from his vision, he comes face to face with… a bedroom?

No, not just a bedroom. A chamber. A wide, sloped chamber with a wrought-iron bed in the very center, not touching any walls, stripped bare of any linens. The walls are bare and windowless, the floors are exposed and layered with dust, and a dry, oppressive chill hangs so heavily in the air that it feels like someone is stepping on Harry’s lungs. 

“Malfoy, what—”

When he turns his gaze to the other man, his throat closes up. 

Malfoy’s skin is so pale against the opaque backdrop that he’s almost translucent, face set into a mask of stone, wand trembling ever-so-slightly in his hand. He doesn’t look like he’s seen a ghost — he looks like he _is_ a ghost. A shell of a half-formed person, fading into the background, darkness pooling under his eyes and soaking into the veined cracks of his skin.

It’s entirely unnerving to think that this is the same man who was standing in the rain picking flowers not twenty minutes ago, cheeks rosy from the cold and hair frizzing around the ends. Now, that man is gone, and what remains is a sight that rattles every bone in Harry’s body. 

“What is this place?” he asks with urgency, words feeling jagged and tart as he struggles to push them out, seeming to absorb into the frigid atmosphere the second they pass his lips.

“This,” Malfoy replies, eyes dull, “is the reason I can’t leave the Manor.”

Harry takes another look around the room, wrapping his arms around himself as the air drops a few degrees. “I don’t understand.”

“Nor should you,” Malfoy adds. “I’ve never shown anyone this before.”

If Harry had the capacity to be surprised, he would be, but he’s too focused on fighting away the chill to raise as much as an eyebrow. “Why are you showing it to me, then?”

Malfoy’s fingers rub at his forearms, trying to create circulation. “You asked.”

“Really? I don’t remember asking for hypothermia.” Harry grits his teeth, then shakes his wand out of his sleeve and attempts to cast a meager Warming Charm over himself.

“Won’t work in here.”

Sure enough, the charm evaporates into the darkness like gas. “What the fuck,” Harry breathes, glaring balefully at his wand. White frost has coated the tip and is crawling rapidly towards the handle. 

“You should put it away,” Malfoy suggests with chattering teeth. “Extreme temperature is bad for wood, worse for wands. It could get damaged.”

With his brow pinched, Harry wipes away the frost and tucks the wand carefully back into his sleeve, then looks pointedly at Malfoy. “Explanation, please?”

The blonde inhales, expression pained. “This used to be a ballroom,” he starts, fingers digging into the brown wool of his jumper. “The main ballroom. There were mirrors and windows and an orchestra pit and everything, but it— it was commandeered by a certain… Dark Wizard… during 1998. I don’t believe I have to tell you which one.”

Harry’s heart thuds like a stone. “You— _what?_ ”

Malfoy grimaces. “Yes. He… these were his quarters. If you can even call them that.”

Goosebumps rise on Harry’s skin, and he can’t decide if they’re from the temperature or from Malfoy’s words. “His quarters,” he echoes, tongue like sandpaper. “Vold– You-Know-Who’s quarters?”

Somehow, Malfoy’s face goes a shade paler. He nods stiffly. 

Harry looks around again at the barren walls and sharp bed frame, the snubbed torches and unlit chandeliers. Malfoy’s suspended _Lumos_ is pulsating eerily in the air and casting the room in a clammy shade of blue, and Harry wants to leave desperately. To run back to the warm kitchen and bury himself in his cup of tea and go back to talking about fabric dye and the weather. “Why?” he asks instead, voice quivering.

“Even Dark wizards have to sleep sometime,” Malfoy replies, but his sarcasm is negated by the lurid green look of nausea overtaking his pointed features.

“No, I mean…” Harry squeezes his arms tightly around his midsection, “... _why_ are we here?”

“Because you _asked_ , Nicholas,” Malfoy repeats. “You said that nothing’s stopping me from leaving the Manor, putting it on the market, moving to France, but you have to understand– _this_ is what’s stopping me. This bloody room.”

Harry frowns, and the movement tugs painfully on his newly-chapped lips. “But what’s happened to it? Why is it…”

“Siberian?” Malfoy fills in for him. “Because he liked it that way. As cold as the blood in his veins.”

“But that’s not all it is,” Harry counters as a tremor runs down his spinal cord. “It’s not just cold. It’s… draining. Like a vacuum.”

“Like a Dementor,” Malfoy confirms grimly. “It’s some kind of ward. It was much stronger when he was… you know. Capacitated. Since then, it’s been getting duller, but it’s also begun to spread. I had to put up that wall in order to contain it to this space, but sometimes I can feel it through the floorboards.” 

“How much stronger?”

Malfoy pulls at the cuffs of his jumper, tugging them over his shaking knuckles. “Were you at Hogwarts back when Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban? When the castle was crawling with Dementors for the entire year?”

At the sound of his godfather’s name coming from Malfoy’s pale, purple-ish mouth, rolling off his gratingly posh tongue, Harry’s voice wedges in the back of his throat. All he can manage is a short, rough nod.

“It was like that,” Malfoy finishes, “only ten times worse. I couldn’t walk down the hallway of the East Wing without collapsing, let alone enter the chamber.”

Harry knows the feeling well. “But… Why did he have it in the first place?” _Why would he put his supporters at risk in his very own headquarters?_

“I couldn’t say. I assume to establish some twisted version of privacy, but who knows? It could have very well been put in place for the sake of fun and games.”

“Because soul-sucking is a totally normal and fun pastime.” Harry feels his face screw up. “Why haven’t you gotten rid of it?”

The suspended _Lumos_ flickers dangerously, as if strained under the weight of the emotional vacuum, and Malfoy gives it a precarious look. “I’ve tried, but it’s impossible. Or near impossible. The type of magic he used is so old that it can’t be found in any textbook, so as far as I know, there’s no counter-curse.” He slides his eyes back to Harry, and the rings of his eyes are dull, pallid. “Do you understand, now? Why I can’t just get up and leave.”

“Because a house with a Dementor Room wouldn’t get decent real estate ratings?” Harry answers, only half-joking. 

Malfoy shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. “Because I refuse to put anyone else in danger,” he says seriously, and his words are like a sucker punch to Harry’s gut. “Especially under the likes of him.”

“Right,” Harry responds feebly, trying very hard not to look like every belief he’s ever had about Malfoy has just been knocked out from under his feet, leaving him in a mental freefall that’s too startling to pull out of. “But… It’s not putting us in immediate danger, is it? I mean, yes it’s freezing, but we’re both very much alive. And not soulless.”

“Yes, well,” says Malfoy, “it’s only a matter of time, I’m afraid. I don’t know about you, but I feel I’m on the verge of fainting.” He looks it, too, with his pupils narrowed and pin-like, and his skin tinted a sickly green. Harry wonders if he looks the same. “Would you mind terribly if we left, now?”

* * *

In some sort of unspoken agreement, the two of them end up back in the kitchen, shaky hands hovering over a flame of the stovetop as they try to restore warmth to their frozen bloodstreams. 

The journey out of the chamber — the Dementor Room, Harry calls it in his head — was silent and stilted, Malfoy keeping his gaze straight ahead while the weight of new information settled like an old house into Harry’s bones, the implications of what he’d just witnessed sinking deeper and deeper with every step. Even now, as he fixes his eyes on the orange flicker of the flame beneath his fingers, the information still hasn’t fully set in. 

Malfoy has a soul-sucking black hole in his house, one made specially by and for Voldemort, and it’s impossible to get rid of. Merlin and Morgana both. 

And to think he was wasting his time talking about _tapestries_ that morning. 

“Have you talked to the Aurors about this?” Harry asks after a long while, breaking the steady silence.

Malfoy snorts, but it comes out half-hearted. “Like they’d give me the time of day.” He’s still as pale and creased as a linen sheet, and the circles under his eyes are worryingly dark, but the yellowish-green tint of nausea has faded away. Regardless, all previous energy has been completely drained from the both of them; even the storm outside has abated to fit the mood, pattering meekly against the window next to their bent heads.

“You never know until you try,” Harry rebuts, but also keeps his voice resigned and irresolute. He knows Malfoy’s right — the Aurors wouldn’t give him the time of day unless it was to arrest him or throw him behind bars. He absolutely needs to tell Bates.“I just think it’s strange that I’m the only person who knows about it, and I barely met you three days ago.”

Malfoy grants him a weary, perfunctory glance, then shrugs. “You seem harmless enough.”

“I’m a historian,” Harry counters with a wan smile. “The most dangerous bloke you’ll ever meet.”

“Mm,” Malfoy grunts, eyes unfocused. He draws his hands back from the burner. “Do you like chicken soup?”

“What?”

“Soup,” Malfoy repeats, rubbing his hands together and pulling away from the stove entirely. “I’ve been craving it all day, and I thought I’d make some for lunch. It’s almost noon. Plus, I just forced you to stand in a room colder than dry ice and might have gotten you sick because of it, and I’ve heard that chicken soup is a remedy.”

“Oh,” Harry says awkwardly, blinking. “Er— okay.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Malfoy opens a drawer next to the sink and bends down to rummage through it, metal clanging as he withdraws a silver pot. “If you’d rather go study then be my guest. I don’t want to derail your work.” He pauses, then adds, “More than I already have, I mean.”

“No, no I don’t mind.”

“Okay.” He straightens up. “Could you pass me that ladle, then?”

Harry does, plucking a shiny copper ladle from a ceramic vase of utensils next to him, then settles back to watch as Malfoy sets the pot on the stovetop and opens a cupboard above his head, revealing a stocked pantry of canned foods and mason jars. After a moment of deliberation, he grabs one that says _Cambell’s_ along the front, and Harry immediately recognizes it as the kind Petunia used to make for Dudley whenever he had a fever as a kid. Of course, Harry had never gotten to try it despite the many days he’d spent curled up in his cupboard, head throbbing and sinuses congested, but only because he didn’t deserve it. Not according to Petunia, at least. “ _It’s your own fault for getting sick,_ ” she would crow, frail hands poised on her hips. “ _It’s like you attract the germs; invite them in for supper. Not my problem._ ”

Suppressing a frown, Harry pushes her nasally voice away and asks lightly, “Can I help?”

Malfoy looks up from where he’s pouring the canned broth. “If you’d like,” he says, then gestures with his chin towards a slim wooden door on the opposite wall that’s humming slightly with a pending Stasis Charm. “There should be fresh carrots and onions in there that need chopping.”

Harry nods affirmatively, pushing off the counter and maneuvering past him to reach the cupboard. He’ll feel better if he’s doing something productive with his hands; less intrusive and cold, at least. “Cutting board?” he asks a minute later after he’s pulled a woven bag of vegetables out of the cupboard.

“Next to the sink.”

As Harry sidles up to the counter a few feet away from Malfoy, he can’t help but feel that something has shifted between them — something significant. An understanding, maybe. It’s almost, _almost_ similar to the feeling Harry used to get around Malfoy during their latter years of school; a morbid, alluring curiosity tangled with a gut instinct to _stay the fuck away._ Like Malfoy’s a wild animal, fascinating and eccentric, but too dangerous to approach. To get close to. 

Harry pulls a carrot from the sack and flicks the sink on, rinsing the small residual bits of soil from it then setting it on the wood cutting board to dry. Next to him, the sound of the burner clicks as Malfoy turns up the heat. 

There’s something magnetic about him, and Harry would be a rotten liar if he denied that he hadn’t felt it since day one. There was something there, back when Malfoy had peered at him through the wrought-iron gates, nose upturned but eyes cautious. Something that Harry can’t put a name on for the life of him. But now that he’s standing in Malfoy’s kitchen for the second time in one day, watching him stir a stainless-steel pot of steaming chicken broth, he can’t help but feel it again. It’s not an unnatural feeling, or even uncomfortable. It’s just… there. 

Like gravity, sort of; unseen but undeniable.

Using a thin knife from the knife block next to the vase of utensils, Harry begins to chop the carrots. “Has anyone ever died because of the room?”

Even though he’s not looking at Malfoy, he can sense a rope of tension pulling taut around the kitchen, and immediately feels bad. He wants to drop the subject, but the trained part of him prods for more information. “Not that I’m aware of,” Malfoy says quietly, carefully. “But I suppose it would be possible if you were inside long enough.”

“Right,” Harry replies; that’s what he thought. Then, feeling even more guilty after stealing a furtive glance at Malfoy’s still-trembling hands, he drops it and slices another carrot. 

The rest of the time is spent in a silence that’s not necessarily comfortable, but definitely not uncomfortable. It’s only broken once or twice, with soft questions like “pass the salt?” and “are these enough carrots?”, and Harry can’t shake the feeling that this is really fucking domestic and not at all what he’d expected to be doing with his work day. Except that’s what it is, isn’t it? Work. The bolded, italicized, and underlined words written on Malfoy’s case file were _extract evidence_ and _observe behavior_ , so technically, Harry’s doing his job. And doing it _well_ , no less.

When the soup is finally finished and the cozy, wood-toned kitchen has been enveloped in a pleasant blanket of steam, Harry sits down across from Malfoy in the saffron-painted breakfast nook. The bowls they’re using look similar to the ones Malfoy had been working on in his kiln the day before, only they’re seafoam green instead of turquoise. Two sets of silver utensils and a couple of crystalline water glasses spring onto the table after they sit, and it takes Harry a slow moment to realize that Malfoy had Summoned them out of thin air. Without a wand. 

“You’re good at that,” he remarks lightly before picking up his spoon. 

Malfoy startles. “Pardon?”

“Wandless magic,” Harry clarifies, pointing at the water glasses with his utensil. “I’ve never Summoned anything wandlessly before, that’s tricky stuff.”

“Oh,” Malfoy looks down at his own, then reaches out to take a sip. “It’s— I learned how because I wasn’t allowed magic after the…” He pauses stiffly, but Harry nods for him to go on, understanding. “The war. It was sort of subconscious, I think, because I wasn’t allowed a wand for a whole year, and even when I got it back it was hard to use. Rusty, so to speak. I had to learn how to do some things without it.”

And the guilt is back. Fantastic. “It’s very impressive,” Harry says with what he hopes to be an encouraging smile, ignoring the stabbing sensation that _he_ was the one responsible for Malfoy’s loss of magic. 

His testimony could have been stronger at Malfoy’s trial; he could have prevented the Wizengamot from issuing that harsh of a sentence. Harry can’t even begin to imagine a year without magic. He may have grown up as a Muggle, but he always had his magic buzzing beneath the surface of his skin, prickling behind his eyes. It was never not there. 

“I’m absolutely pants at wandless,” he adds after a moment. “It’s too unbound for me; too much room for error.” 

Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “That’s not a very Gryffindor thing to say.”

Harry lets a light laugh escape from the back of his throat. “No, I guess not.” Except it’s true; he can’t do wandless magic to save his life. At least, not when he’s thinking about it. 

Sometimes he’ll accidentally do things wandlessly, like snub candles or knock books off of shelves, but it's such an irregular and detached form of energy that he’s never been able to fully grasp it. “ _You could if you wanted to,_ ” Hermione always says, like the lovely, supportive best friend she is. She thinks he could master wandless magic if he buckled down and put his mind to it, what with his overflowing abundance of energy. But he’s never had the time nor the motivation, and he likes his wand perfectly fine. 

He shrugs. “I just don’t want to accidentally hurt anyone.”

Malfoy considers this with a tip of his head. “Actually, I retract my statement; maybe it is quite a Gryffindor thing to say.”

Harry smiles again over the rim of his spoon. Odd, that he keeps doing that without meaning to. 

Then, that spear of guilt strikes him again, and the smile slips away. _You hated him,_ his mind recalls unhelpfully. _You hated him, and you wanted him to get what he deserved. He caused irreversible damage to people’s lives, and he had to face serious consequences._

And maybe that’s true. Maybe, in the end, Malfoy got exactly what he deserved. Maybe living like a Muggle finally helped him grow out of his twisted, bigoted mindset that had plagued Harry’s life and Harry’s friends’ lives for so long. But that’s all past-tense. Harry’s nearly certain that Malfoy could have grown without getting his magic hijacked by the Ministry. 

Magic is sacred, and personal, and beautiful, and he was seventeen when it was ripped away from him. _Seventeen_. 

Growing up as a pureblood, magic must have been part of every aspect of his life. His survival. Losing it could have been a matter of life or death; the Wizengamot knew that. And they took the risk anyway. 

Distantly, Harry wonders if losing his magic would feel like losing part of his soul. Like a Dementor’s Kiss; nearly fatal, but just shy enough that it leaves him in a suspended state of limbo, one foot in reality and one foot in purgatory. He wonders if it feels like walking into that _room_ and never getting a chance to leave, ever again. 

The clink of silverware hitting ceramic pulls him back into the present. He shakes his head and zeros back in on the man across from him whose head is bent slightly over his lunch, hair tumbling around his elvish ears, and sleeves rolled up carelessly. And he finds himself thanking Merlin that this man is still alive, regardless of the mark inked onto his left arm. 

“What?” Malfoy asks abruptly, peering up at Harry from behind his pale eyelashes as his spoonful of chicken soup stops halfway to his mouth. “Is there something on my face?”

Harry blinks, realizing a second too late that he’s been staring, then feels a searing heat blossom over his skin. “No,” he reassures, hoping it doesn’t sound as strangled to Malfoy as it does to him. “Sorry, I spaced out.”

“Oh,” Malfoy resolves, the line in his forehead smoothing. “Is the soup alright?”

Also realizing he hasn’t actually tried his soup yet, Harry hurries to scoop a spoonful into his mouth and nods. “Yes,” he says emphatically after he swallows, the rich, savory flavor warming his body from the inside out. “It’s brilliant.”

Malfoy’s lips quirk, and he quickly looks away from Harry as if to hide them. “Good,” he replies sincerely, bashfully. Then, as if to reassure himself, he echoes: “Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something tells me this is going to end up being longer than 10 chapters... oops.
> 
> thanks for reading, as always! those of you who've left feedback have my entire heart i swear.


	6. Chapter 6

For reasons unknown, Harry doesn’t see Malfoy again for three whole days.

When he appears in the foyer early on Friday morning, wool cap shoved over his ears and eyes bright in the dull light, he’s informed by Gimly in exceedingly apologetic tones that “Lord Malfoy is not wanting to be disturbed today”.

“At all?” Harry asks, and the house-elf shakes her head solemnly, proceeding to ask him if he’d like a cup of tea. When he turns her down, she apologizes once more and Disapparates away, leaving him alone to roam the dark, ornately-decorated halls of the house like he had two days prior.

Unsettled and disappointed, he takes off his cap and begins the slow, mundane process of prodding around the house; he wanders in and out of richly-dressed rooms, checks on the mechanical ladybugs to make sure they’re all in order, wonders what exactly Malfoy's up to that would warrant complete privacy. 

He seemed so open, so vulnerable as he sat across the table from Harry the day before, hands still trembling from the cold of the Dementor Room, the savory smell of chicken broth winding its way into the space between them. He talked to Harry with an even, level-headed voice despite the bruises under his eyes and the slight twitch in his jaw. He even went as far to walk Harry to the front gate at the end of the afternoon, hands shoved in his pockets as Harry's stomach churned with a pleasant, sated warmth.

“Goodbye,” Harry said once the gate had closed behind him, the shadow of the Manor merely a smudge of dark paint against a green and orange backdrop.

“Goodbye,” Malfoy returned, smiling with a softness that acknowledged what they’d been through that day; what they’d said, what they’d seen. Harry felt it in his bones. 

He returned home with the sense that something monumental had happened between them and that he was finally getting somewhere with the investigation. Bates agreed with him profusely when he told her everything over the phone, her voice lighting up with fascination as he described the Dementor Room in detail, his feet kicked up on the scuffed coffee table of his living room. 

_“And you’re the only person he’s told about it?”_ she asked excitedly, the sound of a quill scratching against parchment in the background.

“That’s what he said.”

_“Merlin’s balls, Green. Do you know what this means?”_

“What?”

_“It means we’re onto something.”_

With her words in mind, Harry woke up the following morning with a renewed eagerness to see Malfoy again, to understand more about the nature of the Room and what kind of magic it encapsulates, maybe even to cook lunch with him again.

It appears Malfoy didn’t wake up with that same eagerness.

 _It's fine,_ Harry thinks as he walks down a winding hallway with ivy-patterned wallpaper crawling on either side of him. There are no portraits in this part of the Manor, and Harry's thoughts seem louder without them around. His thoughts echo. _It's completely, one-hundred percent fine._

He knows in the back of his head that he should go check on the workshop and make sure Malfoy’s not up to something shady, but the loose, jelly-like feeling in his gut tells him there’s nothing to worry about. Not to mention that the listening device he implanted the other day hasn’t made so much as a peep. So, without much else to do, Harry makes his way back to the East Wing.

The tapestries that overlay the large cinder wall are as innocent as the day before, but now that Harry knows what’s behind them, he can sense the sinister cold creeping out from behind them. The hallway feels heavier, thick and stifling with the knowledge that Voldemort walked here, slept here. Taking a deep breath, Harry drops his satchel and settles down in front of the wall, wand poised in his hand and ready to run a tedious set of high-level diagnostic spells.

To his dismay, the spells uncover nothing new; they only confirm further that, yes, there is Dark magic swirling about the wing. Unrecognizable and obscure magic, but Dark nonetheless. He bites back a sigh and lets his head fall against the cool stone wall, wishing that Hermione or Ron were here with him. They would know what to do. And even if they wouldn’t, they’d be able to figure it out together — the three of them — just like they’d figured out every trick up Voldemort’s sleeve once upon a time. What harm could another do?

 _Too much,_ his brain counters, recalling the image of Malfoy’s stark white face and trembling hands. 

He lifts his wand again and continues to cast.

He tries a myriad of spells that he learned during both Unspeakable and Auror training, ones that are meant solely for breaking down the components of Dark magic. They soak into the cinder like rain into soil, curling around the Room in an attempt to pry the intense, intrusive black magic from its roots. But every single one is sucked in by the coldness before Harry can even finish the incantation. At the end of his wits, he tries casting a series of futile Patronuses, but even his glimmering white stags are repelled by the room Room, staggering and looking about as stricken as an incorporeal animal can. 

Eventually, the casting wears him out, and he collapses against the cinder wall with a sheen of sweat beading his forehead and a clammy, cold feeling grabbing at his temples. His Patronus tilts its translucent head and nudges Harry with sympathy, its liquid heat a welcome feeling against his skin. "Thank you," he murmurs before the stag begins to melt away, running a tired hand down its immaterial, speckled pelt.

He leaves the Manor at the end of the afternoon feeling frustrated and precariously on-edge, muscles twinging and voice rough from the endless stream of futile spells. It also doesn't help that he hasn't caught so much as a glimpse of Malfoy’s polished blonde head all day. Harry really tries not to dwell on it too much as he drudges down the gravel driveway, exhausted, feet barely picking up off the ground. _Malfoy is a busy man with a business to run,_ he tells himself; it’s not like he has time to stick around making soup all day for his ever-present house guest. Harry knows that. 

But when Gimly recites the exact same apologetic line when he returns the next morning, it becomes obvious that something is wrong.

 _“I’m sure he’s just occupied,”_ Bates reassures over the phone later that evening after another day of aimless wandering and fruitless protective spells, but even she sounds skeptical.

“I don’t think so,” Harry says, slouching on his couch, muscles aching. “It feels purposeful. Like I’ve overstepped my boundaries and now he’s retreating.”

Bates doesn’t buy it. _“You didn’t do anything wrong,”_ she insists. _“He chose to show you the Dementor Room of his own free will. You didn’t ask to see it, let alone force him to take you inside, therefore you’ve overstepped no boundaries. His decision to show you it just proves that he’s getting comfortable with you, and that’s exactly what we need. I’d honestly say that he trusts you more than he trusts an Auror at this point.”_

“I’ve only been here a week,” Harry argues. “Plus, that’s not a very high bar. The Aurors have come extremely close to destroying his life on more than one occasion.”

_“Yes, but still. He was vulnerable with you. Willingly vulnerable. Perhaps he’s just taking some time to wrap his head around that.”_

“So he _is_ avoiding me, then.”

Bates sighs. _“It’s possible, but not for the reasons you think. Being vulnerable isn’t easy, especially if you don’t mean to be in the first place. He’ll come around.”_

Except he doesn’t. 

For three days, Harry is left alone to wander the Manor in a complete fog, trying unsuccessfully to wrap his own head around Malfoy’s erratic behavior. He toys with the idea of sneaking back into the workshop under his invisibility cloak, but dismisses it when his muscles remind him curtly of the anguish they went through after spending four hours on a solid stone floor.

The only problem is that curiosity is a massive, blustering bitch, and on the third day of radio silence, Harry throws on his cloak and marches up to the window of Malfoy’s workshop before he can convince himself not to. 

There’s no clear way inside this time, but it doesn’t matter; he can see the platinum-haired git just fine from his place behind the cool, frosted glass. He isn’t working at his desk like he had been the other day, but rather on a large wardrobe that’s propped in the open center of the room, a coated paintbrush in his hands and a pair of dark utility pants cuffed up around his ankles. 

In other words, he’s doing exactly what Harry expected him to be doing. 

“You’re a bloody boring murder suspect,” Harry mutters under his breath. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy doesn’t respond. 

Harry returns to his flat hours later with a frustrated scowl etched deep onto his face, not even bothering to remove his shoes before collapsing onto his couch and groaning out loud. It feels like he’s taken one step forward and one-hundred steps back. 

But it’s not even his _fault_ ; Malfoy is the issue here. He’s the one shutting himself away for no reason, refusing to even greet Harry in the foyer for a quick “good morning”, making his job about a thousand times harder than necessary. 

What happened to “you seem harmless enough”? How did Malfoy go from exposing his deepest, darkest secrets to Harry in one moment to completely avoiding him in the next? It doesn’t make sense, and Harry has whiplash.

With some difficulty, he takes a deep breath and hauls himself off the sofa, stumbling irritably into his cramped, bare-bones bathroom. His vision is fuzzy and out of focus because of his slowly-waning disguise; he wonders stormily why he even bothered using it in the first place if he knew Malfoy wasn’t going to see it. 

_Because you’re a good agent,_ the voice in his head answers, but it’s combated by a harsher one that sounds familiarly snooty. _Because you’re a coward. Real heroes don’t wear disguises, Potter._

 _Shut up,_ he thinks with force, driving the voice away and shutting the bathroom door. He kicks away his trainers, pulls off his jumper, and twists the shower knob all the way to ‘hot’. 

The water that hits him as he steps inside is scalding, and he hisses as it makes contact with his skin but doesn’t move to turn it down. Instead, he lets the feeling flow over him like a tide, streams of water burning serpentine trails over his bare shoulders and down his chest, coiling like vipers at his feet and spiraling the drain. He turns his palms up as steam begins to balloon around him, watching as his fingers return to their normal stubby length and calloused texture. It isn’t until his legs have stopped aching and his curly, tangled hair is hanging in front of his eyes that he knows his disguise has completely washed away.

Letting his shoulders slump under the heat of the shower, he lowers his head and tries not to feel bitter. 

It doesn’t work. 

All he can think of is Malfoy’s sharp, aristocratic face looking at him from across a kitchen table, skin glowing ever-so-slightly with precipitation as he lifts a steaming spoonful of soup to his lips. The pleased little smile he produces as Harry compliments his cooking; a faint splotch of red that smatters the tip of his sloped baroque nose. 

Harry wants to tear his hair out. 

He wants to know exactly what he’s done to make Malfoy disappear so quickly. Most importantly, he wants to know how to fix it.

But in this instance, he has a feeling that patience is key; that Malfoy will find his way back if Harry lets him. Harry’s never had a knack for patience, but he can try. Maybe. Just this once.

Sighing, he picks up his bottle of lavender-scented shampoo.

Ten minutes later as he steps out of the shower, mirror coated with steam and water clinging to his eyelashes, a faint, unfamiliar pinging sound chimes from the living room. It’s the sound of one of the ladybug devices activating, and it’s the first time he’s heard it since planting them in the Manor. He nearly trips over himself trying to reach it in time, throwing on his dressing robe without drying his hair and racing into the living room where his monitor ladybug is flitting up and down excitedly on the coffee table.

He captures it swiftly and attaches it to the hollow of his ear like George’s instructions said to do, wrinkling his nose at the bizarre sensation of tiny mechanical feet gripping his sensitive skin. A zip of static resonates in his ear and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

Then, a soft, muffled voice:

_“... really has been far too long, darling.”_

It seems like a woman’s voice, high-pitched and stilted, slightly fuzzy with static, distorted by the sound of crackling embers. Malfoy must be Firecalling someone.

 _“I know, I know,”_ Harry hears him respond, the brassy tenor of his accent making Harry’s inner ear vibrate. _“I apologize. But I’ve been quite busy, as you know.”_

 _“And as you know, that’s no excuse.”_ The disembodied voice is silken and aqueous, like a curtain fluttering in a deft breeze. Narcissa. _“You’re self-employed.”_

_“On the contrary, my self-employment is the reason I haven’t spoken to you lately. Time works against those who can’t separate their occupation from their home life.”_

_“Well, in that case, you have no one to blame but yourself.”_

_“You jest, Mother,”_ Malfoy nettles, sounding wearily amused.

_“Do I?”_

There’s a laugh, but Harry can’t tell from who. He sits down on the sofa and absently touches the shell of his ear as the voices thrum into his head like soft instruments.

 _“In all seriousness — I don’t mean to sound uncouth — but why have you called?”_ Malfoy asks a moment later after the soft laughter has subsided. _“I didn’t realize Léon had gotten around to repairing your Floo.”_

 _“Ah, well, he hasn’t,”_ replies Narcissa somewhat disapprovingly. _“I’m using his personal one in the ranch house for the time being. I don’t think he really knows how to repair mine, but he’s much too proud to admit it.”_

_“What do you expect? Il est français.”_

_“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll have to call someone from the embassy to come and fix it while he’s away for the harvest moon to spare his feelings. I wouldn’t dare lay a finger on a Frenchman’s dignity.”_

_“Clever. Speaking of, how is he?”_

_“Exceptionally decent. A lovely host, as always. The farm is flourishing in this weather and it’s kept him quite happy.”_

_“I’d expect no less. And you?”_

Narcissa lets out a curt chuckle. _“The same as always, my love. Has my answer changed once in the years I’ve been here?”_

 _“No, but a boy can hope,”_ Malfoy responds.

Harry fights back a shiver, thinking of how bizarre it is to have Malfoy and his mother whispering back and forth directly into his ear. It’s obviously a harmless interaction that he probably doesn’t need to be surveilling, but something about Malfoy’s subdued tone and the small trace of affection in Narcissa’s voice roots him in place.

_“Have you made plans for the holidays, yet? I meant to ask in my last letter but my inkwell dried up before I got the chance.”_

__At this, Narcissa sighs. _“Again, the same as always. I believe Léon is planning a roasted chestnut dinner and a quiet evening in the parlor, but we haven’t discussed it much. Will you be joining us this year?”_

_“If I’m able to. I miss France.”_

_“The feeling is mutual. It misses you; as do I.”_

_“I know. I’m terribly sorry. I’ll try to make it soon, I promise.”_

Something in Narcissa’s silky tone changes. _“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep, darling. Why have you been so busy as of late?”_

Malfoy sighs a little, and Harry leans forward, equally as curious to hear an explanation. _“Commissions, mostly. I’ve been receiving them in waves ever since I put an ad in the_ Prophet _, which is good for business, but I’m only one man. There isn’t enough time in the day to finish them all.”_

 _“Hm.”_ Narcissa doesn't sound convinced. She prods, _“Is that all?”_

Malfoy makes a small noise of surprise that makes Harry curl his fingers around the edge of a couch cushion for no apparent reason. _“What do you mean?”_

_“Need I repeat myself? What else has been occupying your time? It can’t all possibly be work; you’d have gone mad by now. Have you been dating anyone?”_

Harry feels his eyes blow wide.

_“Mother!”_

_"A simple yes or no would be satisfactory."_

Malfoy splutters, and Harry's face feels beet-red.

_“It’s merely a question, Draco, don’t sound so skittish.”_

_“No! No, I have absolutely not been_ dating _recently,”_ Malfoy says, sounding icy and horrified.

_“But is really there nothing else? You tell me so little about your social life even when you do write me.”_

_“No!”_

_“Are you sure?”_ She sounds skeptical.

_“I mean—"_ Malfoy cuts himself off, sounding strangled. _"I suppose there is_ one _thing, but it’s hardly a big deal.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“A man has been visiting the Manor.”_

Harry tenses instinctively, and his fingers dig deeper into the textured couch cushion.

_“A man.”_

_“Yes, a man.”_

_“A man who you are not dating,”_ Narcissa clarifies.

 _“No, Mother, I’m not dating him.”_ Malfoy says, exasperated, and Harry doesn’t even have time to dwell on _that_ before Malfoy continues, full steam. _“He’s a graduate student doing a dissertation on architectural history, and he’s using the Manor for research. Nothing more. He has permission from the Ministry.”_

_“I see. How long has he been there?”_

_“About a week.”_

_“And is he staying in the Manor with you?”_

_“Morgana, no. He’s staying in town.”_

_“By choice?”_

_“Yes, by choice. I have neither invited nor exiled him from staying here.”_

_“No need to be defensive, I’m just curious. Has he been well-disposed?”_

_“Exceedingly,”_ Malfoy says, his stilted honesty making Harry’s back straighten. _“For someone who knew of me at Hogwarts, he’s been nothing short of decent.”_

 _“Good for him,”_ Narcissa replies. _“He’s older than you?”_

_“Younger. Two years. Gryffindor, no less.”_

__She hums. _“Fascinating.”_

_“Is it?”_

She ignores him. _“Have you shown him the library?”_

Malfoy takes a pause. _“Parts of it. Why?”_

_“There are some marvelous studies on the Manor dating back to the fourteenth century that I’m sure he would benefit from looking at. Your father used to get lost in them for days.”_

_“Oh.”_ Malfoy’s voice suddenly goes flat, emotionless. His mother clicks her tongue gently and goes on.

_“He would get lost in many things, but I don’t have to tell you that. You’re fully aware. History was the one thing he would truly immerse himself in; some days it seemed like he was drowning in it, spending days locked in his study, and I could never seem to pull him out. You could, though. Do you remember?”_

_“Vaguely.”_

_“Well, you could. He would only ever put down a history book for you. For anyone else — it was futile. Like everyone except you was made of dust.”_

There’s a stretch of silence, and static pops against Harry’s eardrum.

 _“Well,"_ says Malfoy. __

_“Well?”_

_“I should go.”_

__Narcissa startles. _“So soon?”_

_“I have work.”_

_“It’s nearly supper.”_

_“Yes. Give my regards to Léon, will you?”_

_“But—”_

_“Oh, and tell him to send me another package of those chocolate-covered chestnuts when he gets a chance; I practically devoured them in one sitting last time.”_

_“I— yes, of course, I will, but Draco—”_

_“Goodnight, Mother. I’ll speak to you soon.”_

The silence that follows is so long that Harry wonders if Malfoy has gone and hung up, just like that. But then, there’s a small, bereaved sigh.

_“Goodnight, Draco.”_

An ember pops with an air of finality, and the static in Harry’s ear fizzles out. The connection is lost.

With a sated _bzz_ , the mechanical ladybug retracts its legs and flutters out of his ear, deactivating as soon as it lands on the coffee table.

Harry touches his earlobe absently as his mind kicks back into gear, Malfoy and Narcissa’s resonating words circling his head like a strong whirlpool.

_History. Your father. Lost. Futile. Draco._

Draco. 

Dazed, Harry stands up. The sky outside the living room window is smudged with lilacs and ambers. There are church bells ringing from a chapel somewhere near. 

Stepping past the couch, he makes his way over to the cramped, book-littered cherry-wood desk that is shoved into the far corner of the living room and budges one of its sticky drawers open. When he finds a yellow legal pad stuffed inside, he _Accios_ a biro pen, tears off a new sheaf of parchment, hunches his shoulders, and begins to write.

* * *

> _Harry,_
> 
> _You’re a strange boy with a strange job. Have I mentioned that before? Probably. But I’ll say it again because, really — you’re very, very strange._
> 
> _I’ve enclosed a collection of the best history books on magical architecture I could find in the Ministry library. There were surprisingly few, and I have a feeling that most of them are as dull as trolls; they’re all research projects and case studies, which — while someone like myself would have no issues finding engaging — aren’t particularly your cup of tea. I haven’t the faintest idea why you of all people would ever need (or worse, want) to read them, but I won’t stop you. That would be silly of me, wouldn’t it?_
> 
> _Except — honestly, Harry. Architecture? Good grief. I thought being an Unspeakable would be more exciting than that. Not that wizarding architecture isn’t interesting, but it’s certainly a step away from the subject matter you usually concern yourself with. I don’t recall there being a History Chamber last time I visited Level Nine. To be fair, that was quite a long time ago, but still; your job is exceedingly odd._
> 
> _As for your question about Dementor magic; I haven’t had time to do much research, but what you described in your letter — a damp, clammy coldness, the inability to create heat, nausea, lightheadedness — those are all symptoms of a nearby Dementor. You know this. They’re also the symptoms of a common flu, but what you’re suggesting sounds more sinister than that._
> 
> _I can’t tell you how Dementors came to be or why their magic aligns so heavily with the Dark; I can only tell you to be careful. If I have the time, I’ll try to do more research. I promise. As depressing and dangerous as they may be, they’re positively fascinating. It’s important to keep in mind that they are ancient creatures with ancient anatomy. They are neither dead nor alive, but rather the physical embodiment of purgatory. Does that make sense?_
> 
> _They’re masters of destruction and manipulators of emotion, but little is known about where they came from or how they came to be so entrenched in Darkness. They act like black holes that take and take and don't stop taking._
> 
> _I don’t have to tell you what they’re capable of. You’re well aware._
> 
> _But I also know what you’re capable of. No matter what it is you’re doing that involves them, I know you know how to keep them at bay. How to fight back. I wish you could tell me more about what Dementors and ancient magic architecture have to do with each other, but I don’t want to get you in trouble. I’m sure you’ve already pushed your limit by asking me those questions._
> 
> _Ron and I miss you. As does Teddy, poor boy. We’ve tried keeping him occupied whenever he and Andromeda come around on the weekends, but all he does is ask when “Uncle Harry” is coming home. I never have an answer for him._
> 
> _Whenever you do end up coming home from your strange job, please contact us. Family dinner is long overdue. Don’t you think?_
> 
> _Much love,_
> 
> _Hermione_

Harry finishes reading the letter just as he steps through the beaded curtain of the cafe, the rich smell of coffee entwining with Hermione’s words and creating a pit of warmth in his stomach. The books she’s sent are stuffed into his satchel along with his Muggle architecture books, weighing down his shoulder uncomfortably and making the strap dig into his skin, but he doesn’t mind.

He wrote to Hermione immediately after Malfoy and Narcissa’s conversation last night, head clouded with uncertainty and restlessness, the need to sort out his thoughts on paper overwhelming him. He didn’t even realize he was addressing the letter to her until his fingers had finished writing _Dear Hermione_ on the header of the legal pad. 

Her owl arrived at the windowsill of his apartment the very next morning, no address on the envelope tied to its ankle, but the peach-colored stationary unmistakable. 

And, for once, Harry’s instincts were right; her words are exactly what he needs to get through the ensuing day of avoidance and frustration. She’s always had a knack for seeking out the specific part of him that needs soothing, using her soft, meaningful cadence to quell his inflamed nerves — even via letter. 

He folds the piece of crisp parchment and tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket for safekeeping. 

The Blue Door has only just opened, and it’s a barren sight this early in the morning; only two stout tables are occupied, one by a sleep-deprived uni student with eye-bruises and a sticker-covered laptop, the other by a middle-aged woman with curved shoulders and a woolen cap pulled low over her ears. Mrs. Plum toddles around behind the counter quietly, flipping shiny levers on espresso machines and humming to herself, nodding pleasantly at Harry as he emerges from the curtain. 

“Flat white?” she asks when he approaches, a gingham-patterned tea towel tossed thoughtlessly over her shoulder.

“Why not,” he answers, knowing he doesn’t actually have a choice. He’s learned that turning her down is a futile fight.

She smiles, pleased with his answer. “I can have that ready for you as soon as I finish this other order. Are you in a rush?” 

“Not at all. Take your time, please.” 

She cracks a grin and promptly disappears into the maze of coffee machines. The whirring sound of bean grinders and the faint hum of jazz fills Harry’s ears as he turns and leans his backside against the counter, wrapping his fingers around the edge and crossing his ankles. Hermione’s letter crinkles against his breast. 

He thinks about what she said. About Dementors, and how their magic is like a black hole; a swathe of emptiness. 

There must be some correlation between them and the room at Malfoy Manor. The feelings are too similar to be purely coincidental. Plus, Voldemort had a thing for dark creatures; being around a Dementor was probably like taking a walk in the park for him.

After hearing Malfoy and Narcissa talk over the Floo, Harry laid up in bed refusing to fall asleep, his brain churning with the realization that, for the first time since coming to Wiltshire, he was scared. Scared for Malfoy. Scared that he’s been living in the same house since the end of the war. Scared that Voldemort still has a hold on him even from beyond the grave. 

For the first time in forever, Harry’s scar throbbed. Not like it used to, and definitely not for the same reasons, but it throbbed. Throbbed with the awareness that Malfoy is well and truly a part of his life again, and there’s not much he can do to stop it.

“Order up!” Mrs. Plum announces, chipper voice cutting through Harry’s thoughts like a warm butter knife. She’s holding out a paper cup wrapped in a cardboard sleeve. 

“Cheers.” He takes it from her gratefully, then digs into his pocket for a few silver coins and drops them onto the marble counter before she can protest. 

“You spoil me,” she admonishes. 

“You house me,” he replies, taking a decisive sip of his coffee and smiling over the lid. 

“Shoo, daft boy.” She waves him away fondly with her tea towel. “Don’t you have work?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well off you go, then! I refuse to be the reason you’re late.”

He smiles, raising his free hand in surrender and backing towards the entrance. “Never fear; I’ll take full responsibility if ever questioned about my punctuality in a court of law. Your name won’t even come up.”

She rolls her eyes, throwing the tea towel back over her shoulder. “I should hope not,” she says, and their conversation is over. Harry turns around, teasing smile still stretched over his face.

Then, the tiny silver bell over the front door jingles, and he almost runs headfirst into Draco Malfoy. 

“Oh—!” 

They both freeze. Harry sloshes calding hot coffee over the back of his bare hand.

“Nicholas?” Malfoy’s eyes go wide, one leather-gloved hand wrapped around the knob of the blue-painted door. “What—”

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks before Malfoy can, dumbfounded. 

“Um,” says Malfoy. His eyes dart over Harry’s shoulder at the cafe. His hair is damp and dark at the roots, and there are raindrops clinging to the slope of his cheeks. “Getting coffee?”

“Yes, but,” Harry stops himself. A gust of wind tumbles through the open door, a spray of mist following closely. “Sorry. Right. Obviously.” He steps back, realizing that they’re standing a tad too close for comfort, giving Malfoy a wide berth to step all the way inside. 

Except he doesn’t. Instead, his sharp gaze snaps back into place and he looks at Harry quizzically. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Harry swallows, and he twists around to look desperately at Mrs. Plum as if she’ll answer Malfoy’s question for him. She’s still at the counter, watching the door with a slight wrinkle in her forehead. “I live here,” he replies after turning back, just in time to see Malfoy’s eyes grow wider. 

“In a coffee shop?”

Harry notices that his hair is frizzier than normal, tiny, individual hairs curling around the crown of his head. He still hasn’t stepped inside. 

“Upstairs,” Harry says. 

“Ah.” 

They stand there a moment longer, Malfoy looking wild and tousled by the wind, Harry suppressing the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him while yelling _where the fuck have you been the past week, you tosser_ at the top of his lungs. If sleepy-college-student, unremarkable-middle-aged-lady, and Mrs. Plum weren’t there, he wouldn’t hold back. 

Malfoy doesn’t look any different than he did a few days ago, but that really shouldn’t surprise Harry; it’s only been a few days. Only. 

His hair is still blonde, his eyes are still tired, he’s still wearing Muggle clothing, and he’s still bloody Malfoy. Except… there’s something off about him. Something jittery and unbound — something that wasn’t there before. 

His cheeks are round and flushed like pink-lady apples; the collar of his tweed jacket is popped up around his pale throat. There’s a leather satchel over his shoulder, not unlike Harry’s.

“Will one of you boys close that door? I can’t have a draft coming in,” Mrs. Plum chimes in from behind them, breaking Harry’s trance and forcing him to blink back up at Malfoy’s pink face. The bastard hasn’t gotten any shorter, either.

With some reluctance, Malfoy steps all the way inside, and Harry parallels him by stepping back. The door clacks shut; the cold morning is blocked out. 

Harry’s knuckles are white around his coffee cup. 

Malfoy blinks, gives him a turbulent look, opens his mouth to say something decisive, then abruptly changes his mind. “I’m going to— um.” He gestures stiffly at the counter. 

“Go ahead,” Harry says, taking another step back even though he doesn’t need to; there’s already plenty of room for Malfoy to walk past him. 

Averting his eyes, Malfoy does just that, weathered floorboards creaking under the soles of his boots. They’re oddly chunky and grunge-ish, and they really shouldn’t go with tweed, but somehow he pulls it off seamlessly. He’s almost dressed like the university student with the laptop, except the jumper he’s wearing underneath the tweed doesn’t read _Salisbury_ across the front in white block letters. He’s dressed more like a professor than a student, actually, with a creamy, starched collar poking out around the base of his neck. 

But, really, Harry shouldn’t be one to judge; he’s only wearing tatty Levi’s and a winter coat, both of which were bought at a charity shop years ago. He looks down at himself. There’s a small hole in his right knee where white-colored thread scratches through faded denim, and his brown industrial boots are thrashed beyond repair. His nose scrunches.

“Nice to see you in town, Draco,” he hears Mrs. Plum say jovially.

“It’s nice to be here,” Malfoy responds, sounding a little less rough, and Harry remembers that they’ve met before. That Mrs. Plum has been to the Manor before. 

“What can I get for you?”

Malfoy takes a moment to consider the blackboard menu on the wall behind the register. “A flat white would be lovely,” he says eventually, and Harry has to use every last muscle in his body to stop himself from scowling like a child. “And perhaps one of those muffins.”

“Blueberry or pumpkin?”

“Pumpkin.”

Harry scowls. 

“Good choice,” Mrs. Plum says approvingly, definitely not shooting Harry a sly, twinkling look as she opens the glass display case, and Harry definitely doesn’t blush furiously after she looks away. Definitely. “You know, it’s funny that you two would run into each other like this. I was under the impression that Nicholas was on his way to your estate for work.”

Harry looks back. Malfoy stiffens. “Was he?”

“Oh, yes. He’s quite the scholar, I’ve heard.”

Malfoy meets Harry’s gaze for a flickering moment. “Yes,” he says shortly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Three-sixty, dear.” 

Harry watches Malfoy pull a wad of Muggle banknotes out of his wallet and fumble for the right amount, stubbornly ignoring the heat pooling beneath the skin of his face.

“Take a seat, please,” Mrs. Plum offers after Malfoy has handed her a handful of money, pleasantly passing back one coin to correct his math, then nodding at an empty table for two near the front window. “Your coffee might take a minute or two.”

“Er,” Malfoy says. He eyes the table warily. “Alright.”

“You too, mister,” she adds, and it takes Harry a moment to realize she’s talking to him. 

“Er,” he echoes, and it comes out like a question.

“Come on, now.” She smiles as she pushes the register shut “Your boss is here; you’re in no rush anymore, are you? Sit.”

“He’s not my boss,” Harry says at the same time Malfoy says “I’m not his boss,” and they jerk their heads to look at each other with equal amounts of disgruntlement. 

Mrs. Plum laughs kindly at their awkward display. “If you insist,” she says airly, then turns away to start working on Malfoy’s order.

At a loss and, evidently, having no other options, Harry steps towards the table by the window and pulls out a chair. Malfoy follows slowly, wood scraping against wood, and then he’s sitting, and Harry’s sitting, and they’re face to face. 

The town outside is grey and serene; rain spatters the window next to their heads. Harry has deja-vu.

“Hi,” Malfoy says as if they didn’t just have an entire conversation, looking as awkward as Harry feels as he settles tightly into his chair. 

“Hi.”

“I didn’t— um.” He pauses. Takes a breath. “I didn’t realize you lived here. With Mrs. Plum.”

“I don’t live with her,” Harry corrects. “I just rent out one of the flats upstairs; she’s the landlady.”

“Right, that’s… what I meant.”

“Oh.” Harry’s knuckles are white again. “Well, yes. I live here. Temporarily.”

Malfoy nods. His hair isn’t tied back today, but the front pieces are tucked behind his ears, giving him a sleek, androgynous look. It looks nice, Harry thinks, then wonders why in the world he thinks that. “Interesting that this is the first time I’m running into you here. The Blue Door has been my go-to coffee establishment for a long time.”

 _Coffee establishment,_ Harry’s brain wants to tease. “I haven’t been here a long time,” he points out instead.

“No,” Malfoy agrees. 

The silence between them becomes syrupy and uncomfortable, and Malfoy has an odd look on his face as he drops his gaze to the polished table and absently traces a knot in the wood with the pad of his index finger. He hasn’t taken off his gloves. Harry sips his coffee.

“This is rather awkward, isn’t it,” he says after swallowing, because somebody has to say it. 

Malfoy flicks his eyes up momentarily. “Yes,” he replies. The look on his face twists, and Harry realizes that it isn’t a look of anxiety or discomfort. It’s a look of guilt. 

For some twisted reason, seeing it makes him feel about ten times better.

“You look like you’re on the verge of an apology,” Harry says plainly, leaning back in his chair and observing the taut line of Malfoy’s shoulders.

Malfoy’s finger stops tracing. “Yes,” he says again, strained. 

Harry lifts his eyebrows and waits for him to go on. 

With a resigned sigh, he does. “I’m sorry,” he says, slumping. “I’m very sorry. Terribly, exceedingly sorry. I’ve— I didn’t mean to leave you on your own this week, I just— I’ve had—”

“Work,” Harry finishes for him.

“Well. Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

“That’s— what?”

“That’s okay,” Harry repeats. “I understand. I’m not mad.”

Malfoy raises his eyes. “You’re not?” he asks, sounding smaller than he is.

“No,” Harry says, shifting in his seat and crossing his ankles. “A bit disappointed, but not mad. I was looking forward to spending more time with you; the other day was nice.”

“Nice,” Malfoy repeats, nose scrunching as if the word tastes foreign on his tongue. 

“I mean, lunch was nice. Not the other part.”

“No, not the other part.” Malfoy ducks his head. “You’re really not mad?”

 _Yes._ “No, I’m not. You’re a busy man.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches down and presses into a thin line. “I suppose. That’s no excuse, though. I’m— you’re a guest in my home. I’m sorry.”

Without meaning to, Harry laughs and tilts his head back. “You apologize a lot.”

Malfoy blinks hard, apparently startled by the laugh, then sinks a little lower into his seat. “Sorry,” he apologizes, then realizes what he’s said and grimaces. 

“See what I mean?”

“I—” He sets his jaw. “I’m new at it, if you must know.”

“Apologizing?”

“Yes.”

“I could tell.” Harry tries for a smile, showing Malfoy there’s no ill intent behind his words. None that he knows of. “I used to be that way, too.”

“Oh?”

“Big-time.”

“What for?”

Harry snorts. “Complicated question, but pretty much everything. Anything and everything.”

Malfoy looks back at the table and resumes tracing the wooden knot. “Yeah,” he says, which is not what Harry expects at all. “Me too.”

The smile slips off Harry’s face, and a pang of something he can't name rings like a gong in his chest. But before he can ask Malfoy to elaborate, Mrs. Plum sidles up to the table and sets down a steaming espresso and a muffin on a ceramic plate. “Enjoy,” she says cheerily, and Harry realizes that Malfoy didn’t ask for his order to-go.

“Thank you.” Malfoy smiles at Mrs. Plum with weary politeness and pulls the plate towards him.

She turns to Harry. “You’re sure you don’t want anything else? You’re far too—”

“Skinny, yes, I know.” Harry cuts her off with a small shake of his head. “You’ve said. Thank you, but I’m alright.”

She huffs a haughty “Fine”, but reaches out and fondly ruffles his hair before ambling away back into the fray of mismatched tables and chairs. Harry watches her go with a tight, warm feeling, finding that she reminds him of Molly more and more with every passing day. He misses the Burrow.

“She’s like your mother,” Malfoy remarks from across the table. 

Harry looks at him sidelong, but the expression he’s met with is nothing but passive and observatory; there isn’t even a twinkle of a sneer. 

Harry exhales “Yeah” trying not to make the single syllable sound melancholy. He then downs another mouthful of coffee so he can cut the conversation short, not wanting to risk delving any further into the topic of family with Malfoy.

Thankfully, he lets the subject drop and refocuses back on his breakfast. He pulls his gloves off finger by finger using his teeth, discarding them onto the table and proceeding to peel at the wax wrapper of his muffin. 

“So,” he starts after breaking off a chunk and popping it into his mouth. “You were on your way to the Manor this morning?”

Harry watches the curve of his throat as he swallows. “I was.”

“Even though I’ve been—” Malfoy cuts himself off, searching for the right word. “Well. Absent?”

“I still have work to do,” Harry replies, and it’s easy to say given that it’s not exactly a lie. “You being there or not doesn’t exactly change that. I’m still studying and researching, and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Malfoy echoes, digesting the words. “I figured you could continue without me, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t… I should have asked. I told Gimly to keep an eye on you in case— I mean, not because you need supervision, or anything, but— in case you had questions or concerns. I know she’s not very helpful on a scholarly basis, but she knows the place much differently than I do. Better, probably.”

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen Malfoy fumble with a sentence so much, and there’s something simultaneously nerve-wracking and satisfying about it. “She’s been helpful,” he nods in an attempt to ease the frustrated crease of Malfoy’s brow, even though he hasn’t really spoken much to Gimly beyond an occasional greeting in the foyer. “But I’ve been getting by pretty well on my own, thanks.”

“Right,” Malfoy says quickly, picking at his muffin with a bitten-down fingernail. “I thought as much. But, um— I’ve just finished with a large order for the shop, so I should have quite a bit more free time this week to aid you with your work. Not that you need it, of course, just if you’d want it.”

Harry’s eyebrows go up. “That’s nice of you,” he says, and he means it.

“It’s really not. I should have been more available from the beginning,” Malfoy counters self-critically, frowning. “You say I apologize a lot, but there’s a good reason for it; I don’t really know what I’m doing when it comes to the Manor, so it can be hard sometimes. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

The startlingly earnest statement catches Harry off-guard. He blinks, slowly and deliberately. “It’s perfectly fine to not know what you’re doing,” he says after a moment. “I certainly don’t.”

Malfoy snorts softly. “Don’t be ridiculous; historians know everything.”

“Do we?” Harry laces his fingers together around his coffee cup and carefully regards the man across from him; the strangely fidgety, obnoxiously apologetic, surprisingly earnest man. “I think it’s the opposite, really. We don’t know anything at all. Why do you think we’d dedicate our entire careers to research and investigation if we knew everything?”

Malfoy blinks an ashy gaze. “Touché, I suppose. Although you did just call yourself stupid.”

At this, Harry’s mouth twitches upward. “I’ve called myself worse.”

Malfoy stops fiddling with his muffin, nimble fingers stilling as he considers Harry from a tilted angle. “You’re extremely odd,” he declares matter-of-factly after a moment without a trace of malice, straightening his shoulders and reclining in his chair.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

His mouth falls open. “Excuse you?”

“You heard me,” Harry says, and his smile quickly turns playful. 

“Are you— I am not odd!”

“Draco.” Harry unlaces his hands so he can splay them on the table, leaning forward just a bit so his dark fringe tumbles in front of his eyes. “You are just about one of the oddest people I’ve ever met.”

“Nicholas,” Malfoy responds, mirroring him and tipping forward. His rings click against the surface of the table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I am positively the most normal, most bland, most non-eccentric person you’ve ever met.”

“You’re a twenty-three-year-old millionaire who sells antiques,” Harry says.

“Millionaire?” Malfoy’s tone raises. “What makes you say that?”

Harry stares at him. “You live in a castle.”

“No, I live in a manor. Extremely different. You should know this, you bloody architecture student.” Malfoy rocks back again, his hands falling away from the table as his lips quirk ever-so-slightly. “And I’m not a millionaire.”

Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow. 

“I’m not! Anyways, we’ve gotten off-topic. Would you like me to help you out around the Manor or not?”

Harry rolls his eyes and leaves the topic alone. “I could honestly care less about what you do,” he says, though that’s probably the biggest lie he’s told all day. “My research isn’t exactly that interesting.”

“Now, that, I highly doubt,” Malfoy rebuts. “The house may be dreadful, but it’s a grand kind of dreadful.”

“Absolutely, but that doesn’t mean it will be interesting to you. Obviously I find it all fascinating.” Then, figuring now would be the best time to pull out a piece of vocabulary he learned from his Muggle architecture books, Harry adds secretively, “The flying buttresses are phenomenal.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what those are, but I agree wholeheartedly.”

 _Me neither._ Harry breaks into a grin and laughs. So does Malfoy, the corners of his eyes crinkling, a teasing line appearing on one side of his mouth, and for a moment — the briefest, most fleeting moment — everything feels utterly and completely okay. Like Malfoy’s not on track to becoming a murder suspect. Like Harry’s not a fraud. Like they’re two normal people sharing a normal breakfast having a normal conversation.

“So?” Malfoy asks after they’ve settled, eyes brighter than Harry’s seen them.

“So...”

“May I accompany you?”

“While I’m doing research at the Manor?”

“Yes.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s not like I can stop you.”

Malfoy smiles. “Good point.” He leans back and takes a hearty bite of his muffin.

* * *

The morning wears away with a kind of friendly aloofness that makes Harry feel like he’s bathing in a vat of fresh air, letting his lighthearted conversation with Malfoy twist and turn with astounding ease until, before he knows it, it’s nearly ten o’clock and Malfoy is licking pumpkin-flavored residue from his fingertips with finality. Harry watches him do it, finding himself forgetting why on Earth he was ever angry in the first place.

“Shall we?” he asks as Malfoy pushes his plate away and stands from his seat.

“We shall,” Malfoy answers, stretching like a feline, spine arching as he presses into his lower back with his palms. “But feel free to go on and get a headstart; I’ve got a quick stop to make.”

Harry follows suit, standing up and pushing in his chair. The cafe has filled up significantly since they first sat down, and there’s a light layer of chatter that glazes Malfoy’s words. “At your shop?”

Malfoy releases his arms, straightens his back, and nods.

“Can I come?” Harry asks eagerly, lugging his satchel over his shoulder. “I walked past it the other day but it was all dark and closed.”

Malfoy cocks his head and takes a second to consider as he picks up his discarded tweed blazer and leather gloves. “If you’d like to. It should only take a few minutes.”

“I would.”

“Alright, then,” he says easily, slipping the jacket on and stuffing the gloves into one of the sleek pockets. _“Allons-y.”_

They pluck their empty dishes from the table and walk them over to the bussing station at the back of the cafe, wave friendly goodbyes to Mrs. Plum, then make their way out into the frigid morning. The rain has thankfully cleared up somewhat, and there are patches of sunlight breaking through the dense embolus of clouds as they stride across the narrow street, Malfoy taking the lead by a few steps. Harry absently wonders if the weather is nicer in France. 

When they come to a stop outside the darkened antique store, Malfoy produces a ring of skeleton keys from his pocket and twirls them around his middle finger before picking one and jamming it into the deadbolt on the door.

“After you,” he says.

The shop inside is not much warmer than it is outside; even when Malfoy flips the light switch right on the inside of the door jamb, there’s a kind of muted draft that Harry thinks must be inside every antique store on Earth. Regardless, it’s an impressive sight; a long, polished wood counter sits front and center, framed by two rickety staircases leading up to the second floor. 

Every surface that Harry can see is taken up by some sort of item or oddity, not unlike Malfoy’s workshop, but more deliberately organized and marked with yellow price tags. Muggle paintings and unmoving tapestries line the walls like an art gallery, some of which paint serene pictures of old marble buildings that Harry vaguely recognizes from his art history books. 

“Feel free to look around,” says Malfoy, keys jangling as he stows them away and sidles up behind the front till. “Just try not to break anything.”

“Your faith in me is heartwarming,” Harry replies, but it comes out distracted as he’s too busy staring at an ancient-looking sketch of what may or may not be the Hagia Sophia. He can’t really tell, though; all the Mediterranean Muggle temples in his books look the same to him.

“This floor and the one upstairs are all Muggle-friendly,” Malfoy goes on, ignoring him. “Downstairs is the enchanted stuff.”

“Downstairs?” Harry looks around.

“It’s through the back,” Malfoy says, then beckons Harry over to the curtained doorway separating the back of the store from the front. “This way.”

Malfoy leads him through the curtain into a cramped storeroom that isn’t much different than the display out front, only it’s far more cluttered and there’s a stack of crates that look exactly like the ones Harry saw when he was in Malfoy’s workshop under the invisibility cloak. There’s also a case of descending stairs that creaks when Harry steps down it, cramped and hidden away from the reaches of daylight. 

Malfoy’s platinum head is like a lantern in the dark, bobbing down in front of Harry as the stairs empty out into a brick-walled basement. Even more shelves and display cases scatter the floor down here, some containing racks of sparkling jewelry, others with old dining sets, books, hand-held mirrors, and perfume bottles. There’s a wall chock-full of ticking grandfather clocks, some of which are chattering amongst themselves, while a rotating medieval solar system is suspended precariously in midair near the ceiling. On the far wall sits a wide-bearing hearth, unlit and stoic; small square windows are set into the very top of the walls, peering out onto the pavement just barely creeping above ground level. Strings of unlit candles, floating candelabras, animated spinning-wheels, and flapping wardrobes overtake the rest of the space, cocooning the room in a stifling blanket of antique magic. 

“Hello?” Malfoy calls out suddenly as they reach the bottom of the staircase, startling Harry.

“Are you expecting someone?”

Malfoy nods, squinting through the layer of dust that peppers the air. “My partner.”

Harry can’t even begin to explain why his stomach swoops uncomfortably at those words. “Oh.” There’s no answer to Malfoy’s greeting, but Harry looks around anyway, bracing himself for someone to pop out unexpectedly from behind the depths of shelves. 

“Heavens,” Malfoy says from beside him, sounding amused. “There’s no need to look so disappointed, I meant my business partner.”

“What?” Harry’s face flames up as he whips his head to look back at the other man, eyes wide. “I’m— you— what?”

Malfoy chuckles, the curved line of a smirk creasing his cheek, but doesn’t elaborate. “One moment,” he says, sweeping further into the basement and heading towards the unlit hearth. Without taking out his wand, he waves his hand and the fire sparks into existence, yellow light fanning out across the sanded floorboards. He then sinks to his knees and promptly sticks his head into the fire. 

“Hello?” Harry hears him repeat into the fire, followed by a name that Harry doesn’t recognize. “Mykah?”

The flames flare up, and from them a muffled voice responds. 

“Oh, good,” says Malfoy. “Could you come through? I want a second opinion on a bedroom set I finished this week before I open up shop.”

After a moment of another unintelligible reply, Malfoy pulls his head back and pushes himself up from the floor as the fire turns a brilliant shade of green. He glances back at Harry briefly, who is still standing at the bottom of the stairs with his shoes frozen to the floorboards, and explains, “It’s a two-way Floo between the store here and the one on Diagon.”

Harry’s mouth shapes into an ‘O’ just in time for the arrival of Malfoy’s partner, a tall, slender figure that appears in the hearth in an exciting shower of green sparks and a plume of soot. The figure coughs and the flames die down, revealing a tall witch with burnt orange robes and long, elegant dreadlocks that are tied half-up at the crown of her head. She doesn’t appear to notice Harry as she steps out of the fireplace, zoning in on Malfoy immediately and asking in a sonorous accent, “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.” Malfoy slides his hands into the pockets of his black trousers and nods towards the staircase behind Harry. “In the storeroom. I’m thinking each piece can go for three or four-hundred individually, a thousand altogether.”

The woman cocks her head and the gold-plated earrings she’s wearing clink merrily. “What century?”

“Mid-nineteenth.”

She laughs, a velvety, tenebrous sound that sounds like it’s coming from deep in her chest; Harry half expects the glassware to start shaking. “You drive too much of a bargain. Let’s see them?” She turns towards the staircases, then stops in her tracks as her piercing gaze lands on Harry. “Oh,” she says, surprised. “Hello there. Who are you?”

Harry opens his mouth to introduce himself, but Malfoy beats him to it. “Nicholas Rivers. He’s here with me.” He turns. “Nicholas, this is my business partner, Madame Mykah Euboea Blackwood. She owns the building and looks after the Diagon side of the shop.”

“Er,” says Harry, somewhat struck by the woman’s intense, austere beauty. She can’t be much older than either of them, but her bell-sleeved robes and tessellated head scarf suggest otherwise. “Hello.”

The woman — Mykah — nods pleasantly to him, then looks at Malfoy with a crafted deadpan. “Why must you always introduce me using my full name?”

Malfoy responds with a grin so wicked that it catches Harry off guard. “Because I adore your full name, obviously.”

Mykah gives him a weighted stare, and his grin only gets wider. Harry has a feeling they’re sharing an inside joke that they probably won’t bother explaining to him, but it’s over in an instant as she breaks away and steps towards Harry with an outstretched hand. “Please excuse him. I just go by Mykah — none of that Madame rubbish. It’s lovely to meet you, Nicholas.”

He shakes it, and her hand is smooth and welcoming. “And you.”

“May I ask why we haven’t met before? Draco never brings people around the shop unless they’re potential customers.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” Malfoy interjects.

“I don’t know if I could afford to be a customer,” Harry replies sheepishly, dropping his hand to the strap of his satchel. “I’ve also only been in town for a week, so that’s why I’ve never been here before.”

“Ah,” Mykah replies, nodding, “I see. Well, no worries about the prices; if you see something you like, I’m sure we can come up with a discount. Right, Draco?”

Malfoy sniffs. “Depends on what it is, but yes. We do friends and family discounts on occasion.”

Harry’s brain latches onto the word ‘friend’ and stays there. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says faintly, mind reeling with the sudden awareness that he and Malfoy are friends. Or, at least, on friendly terms. Business friends?

“Now,” Mykah changes the subject promptly, looking at Malfoy. “Can I see the bedroom set or not?”

“Yes, yes. Onward.” Malfoy ushers her up the stairs, stopping only to look over his shoulder at Harry and tell him that “This should only take a few minutes. If you do see something you like, by all means, have at it.”

Harry’s brow creases. “For free?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Think of it as an apology.” Then, before Harry can argue with him, he resumes walking up the stairs, his heavy boots making the timeworn steps sag under his soles. 

Without him or Mykah there to take up space, the basement feels larger, more intimidating as Harry pries his gaze away from the stairs and regards the room with a new perspective. He can practically feel his Protean Galleon burning a hole in the front pocket of his jeans as he contemplates whether or not to let Bates know where he is.

He should, probably; he should also cast an industrial-grade _Revelio_ over the room to expose any traces of dark magic or dangerous artifacts. But he holds back.

Carefully, he begins to pick his way through the enchanted clutter, running his fingertips over extravagant wardrobes and carved dining tables, trying to ignore the thrumming of his head as he mentally repeats _friends, friends, friends, friends, friends_ over and over again. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It isn’t a big deal. 

It’s a very, very big deal.

Malfoy and Mykah’s voices float down from the stairwell, and while Harry can’t really make their dialogue out, he gets the feeling that they’re tussling over price ranges. He pauses to look at a case of gramophones and an accompanying crate of music records, all of which are magical bands that he doesn’t recognize except for one faded pink Celestina Warbeck album that’s got to be a collectible. Further down is a display of vintage magical board games, one of which is a particularly gruesome-looking set of wizarding chess that Harry knows Ron would drool over. It even comes with a tiny marble guillotine, and Harry has to refrain from grabbing it and buying it as an early Christmas present. 

_Friends, friends, friends,_ his mind pulses. 

Across from the board games is a long, shiny table littered with multi-colored lamps and candle-holders. One array in particular catches Harry’s eye, and he moves closer to get a better look.

_Friends, friends, friends._

In the very center of the table, set up in a straight, neat line, is a row of intricately-crafted lamps with stained-glass lampshades. They’re not very big — maybe meant for an end table or desk — but the striking mosaics of color and meticulous, detailed patterns make up for their lack in size. 

With burning curiosity, Harry leans towards them and touches gentle fingers to one of the lampshades, one that’s stained in soft greens and blues and has a shifting, watery pattern rolling across the surface like beach waves. It’s stunning, he thinks, wishing he could turn it on and see what patterns the light would make across the wood ceiling and floors. But there’s no plug or wire in sight, which is a little odd; even if the wizarding world isn’t up-to-date on the latest, most progressive technology, usually most household appliances need some sort of electric outlet to function. Maybe antiques are different that way.

The waves move under his fingers, and he can feel his lips twitch, tracing the movement of the lampshade with his index finger. A small, cerulean dolphin leaps out of the glass water and splashes back in, sending a ripple of color across the expanse of the lamp.

 _Friends, friends, friends,_ his mind whispers. 

“Beautiful aren’t they?” comes a deep female voice from behind Harry, and he jerks his head up.

Mykah is standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded as she watches Harry’s fingers on the lampshade, her sweeping orange robe fluttering around her pointed shoes. He didn’t hear her come down.

“That was quick,” he remarks, stepping back from the display and trying not to let her elegance fluster him for the second time. It’s difficult; even from across the room, her eyes are a deep, striking shade of golden brown that makes his pulse jump.

She simply smiles. “Draco told me to tell you that he’s logging the new prices into the database upstairs, and he should be done in a few. That man always underestimates the worth of his work, I swear.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Does he?” That doesn’t sound very Malfoy-esque.

“Mhm,” Mykah hums, unfolding her arms and approaching Harry. Her wide sleeves almost brush the floor. “Far too much. I don’t think it’s a matter of humility, though; sometimes he genuinely doesn’t understand how impressive his work can be. He made those, you know.” She nods at the stained-glass lamps.

Harry follows her gaze. “From scratch?” he asks, watching the blue dolphin jump across the glass merrily.

“No, not from scratch. Close to it, though. They were completely totaled beyond repair when they were first given to him.” She comes up beside Harry and reaches out to a pinkish lamp patterned with swaying roses and coils of vines. “It took him almost a year to restore all of them. I think there were ten or eleven in the original set, but most of them have been sold by now. They’re some of the last purely-magical electricity-conducting artifacts in Britain.”

“Is that why they don’t have plugs?” Harry asks.

“That’s exactly why. They don’t have batteries or gas-power either; it’s all run on magic. Impressive, right?”

He turns back to stare hard at the lamps, trying to picture Malfoy hunched in his workshop, nimble fingers working meticulously on the delicate glasswork. “How do they work?”

Mykah sighs a little at this. “I couldn’t tell you. Something about the magical conductivity of the lightbulb and the kinetic energy that the glass helps contain, but it’s all pure jargon to me. You’ll have to ask Draco. He’s the artist around here.”

Harry glances at her. “Artist,” he repeats. “I thought he was just a curator.”

That thick eyebrow arches again. “One could argue that those are the same thing,” she says, her jewelry clinking as she absently rotates one of the lampshades while keeping one eye on Harry. “While I’m sure he would deign himself as ‘just a curator’, he’s one of the best artists I know; it takes a lot of talent to do what he does.”

Harry feels warmth seeping through his veins. “I’ve never thought about it like that,” he admits. 

Mykah peers at him curiously. “How long have you known him?”

Harry puts his hand back on the strap of his rucksack. “I met him formally about a week ago, but we went to school together. At Hogwarts.”

A knowing look crosses her face. “Ah. And you’re here because...”

“I’m doing a dissertation on his estate.”

“You’re a scholar, then?”

Harry nods. 

“I see.” She re-folds her arms, a sudden seriosity settling over her. “I only met him when he started working for me a few years back — ‘99, I believe — and he’s become quite a dear friend to me. I’m not sure what exactly you remember about him from your years at school, but it would be foolish of me not to insist that he’s grown quite considerably since then.”

Harry stays silent. _Friends, friends, friends,_ his mind says.

She continues; “I’m a Muggleborn, so believe me when I tell you that he’s changed for the better. That mark on his arm holds no more significance than a drunken tattoo, and I hope you can see him for more than what it stands for.”

Harry is speechless, and he fumbles for an adequate response, landing clumsily on, “Of course.”

Mykah takes it. “Good,” she says. Then, “Are you interested in purchasing one of the lamps?”

Harry blinks, head reeling at the abrupt change in tone. “Um. No, that’s okay.”

Her pleasant smile is back. “No worries. Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps,” he replies faintly, just in time for the creak of the stairwell to cause him to look over and see Malfoy pop his head into the basement.

“Everything’s been logged into the system,” he announces triumphantly to Mykah, expression bright and teeth gleaming. He addresses Harry; “Did you find anything you like?”

_Friends, friends, friends._

“Too much,” Harry responds honestly, looking askance at the stained-glass lamps. “But nothing that would go with my flat.”

“Pity." Malfoy frowns sympathetically. "Maybe next time?"

"Next time," Harry confirms.

"Are you ready to head off, then?”

Relieved at the suggestion, Harry nods. He needs to get out of this basement. “Yeah, if you don't mind.”

"Not at all." Malfoy looks back to Mykah and produces a small, insufferable bow from his place on the steps. “Farewell, Madame Blackwood. I’ll be back next Monday.”

She rolls her eyes, but indulges him and nods back anyway, lifting her gauzy robes in a half-hearted curtsy. “Farewell, Lord Malfoy.” 

Harry offers up a small goodbye as he brushes past her and joins Malfoy on the staircase. She returns it, awarding him one last meaningful look before he disappears upstairs, face going hot. 

“Mykah didn’t harass you, did she?” Malfoy asks once they emerge back onto the main floor, ring of keys swinging on his middle finger. “She can be a little strong-armed sometimes when it comes to new people.”

“No,” Harry says, even though her words are still clanging around his head like steel drums as he follows Malfoy to the front of the store. “She seems lovely.”

Malfoy glances over his shoulder, grinning. “She is.”

Just as he’s about to twist the handle and budge the front door open, Harry’s eye catches on something next to the register. A stack of somethings, rather.

There, sitting in a pool of grey light and innocence, is a stack of glossy white business cards with the words _“Malfoy Restorations and Refurbishings, est. 2001”_ printed across them in black ink. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and his mind zips to the case file. To the dead witch with the business card in her wastebin. To the reason he’s here. 

He grabs one of the business cards of the counter before he can think better of it, and turns back around. Malfoy raises his eyebrows quizzically. 

Harry shrugs with attempted nonchalance, ignoring the thrum of his pulse. “In case I need any furniture fixed.” 

Something like a smirk glints in the blonde's eyes. “If you say so.” He holds the door wider. 

Harry shoves the card in his pocket and walks past him, feeling a puff of cold breath against the back of his neck as they re-enter the cool, yellow bluster of autumn. The pewter sky is heavy and sodden with the promise of rain; the cobbled pavement is flush with moss and dew, soaking up the meek sun into its spidery cracks.

Harry breathes it in, and together they turn towards the Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for getting this out so late! this month has been absolutely insane, and i was in quite the slump when writing the beginning of this chapter, so if it's a tad incoherent that's probably why.
> 
> on the bright side, i have a [tumblr](https://dynazty.tumblr.com/) now !! it's extremely new and i'm still learning how to navigate it, but i'd love for you to come hang out and/or chat with me. i promise i don't bite !!
> 
> thanks for reading, once again :)


	7. Chapter 7

Running into Malfoy in the mornings becomes a routine. 

Harry’s not sure why, or how, or even when it went beyond a coincidence and became something he expected to happen every time he pushed through the beaded curtain of the cafe, but he’s not complaining. It’s nice to have someone to talk to besides Mrs. Plum when his vision is still bleary with sleep and his bones are still aching from Polyjuice. Especially when that someone always looks as rumpled and as open as the wind like Malfoy does, morning sunlight gleaming in his eyes. 

He’s a surprisingly welcome sight, and Harry finds himself waking up earlier and earlier each day in hopes that he’ll make it downstairs in time to catch Malfoy at the counter, money in hand as he orders a medium flat white. Like he does every time.

Walking to the Manor together also becomes a routine. They Apparate every once in a while — when the rolling grey clouds yawn open precariously, threatening to dump rain on their heads — but mostly they walk. The estate is barely a mile away, so it’s not a very long journey. Except the winding path to the front gate is mostly uphill and Harry always has to hunch over with his hands on his knees when they get to the top, cheeks red, chest heaving, Malfoy calling him “grandpa” with mirth lighting his face. And then Harry has to thump him on the shoulder and laugh because he’s not offended, but he really should be.

Some days they stop at the antique store so Malfoy can check up on the shop and say a quick hello to Mykah. She’s usually dressed in some variant of sweeping, brightly-colored robes that make Harry nervous and flustered, like he’s in the presence of royalty. If she notices she doesn’t say anything, smiling at him as he trails into the shop after Malfoy, making light, unimportant small talk with him. 

He discovers at one point that she’s only six years older than him when Malfoy mentions her upcoming birthday in December, though Harry thinks she’s wiser than a thirty-year-old ever could be. She has that poised look about her that suggests she knows everything about everyone at all times, her lips always pursed in a small, secretive smile, her eyes always lidded, her arms always crossed. 

“Are you calling me old?” she asks when he voices this out loud, lifting her eyebrows as she leans against the register. 

Harry’s face turns as red as her outfit and he immediately takes it back. She just laughs, merry and rich, while Malfoy takes his arm and guides him out of the shop before he can say anything else borderline-offensive.

The best part about their new routine, in Harry’s opinion, is that Malfoy doesn’t disappear into his workshop again. Not like he did. And even when he does, it’s only for short intervals during the afternoon, and he always finishes in time to see Harry out and walk him down the length of the drive right when the dusty blue sky is turning purple. 

Those walks are usually much quieter than the ones in the morning, only the stir of the canopy above and the crunch of the gravel below filling up the space where conversation should be. Sometimes an occasional peacock will chirp up and they’ll both swivel their heads to look at it amidst the crooked elm trees and square hedges, its feathers fluffed up pleasantly at the attention. Then Harry will say something like, “Your peacocks are weird,” and Malfoy will respond with a soft, amused, “I know,” and then they’ll keep walking. 

During the days that Malfoy is working, Harry sits alone in the East Wing and stares hard at the gilded tapestries that drape across the entrance to the Dementor Room, contemplating whether or not he should move them aside and try to get in 

_“Don’t,”_ Bates advises him. _“Not alone. It could be a trap, or something.”_

“It’s not a trap.”

_“It didn’t say it was, I said it could be.”_

“Well, it’s not,” Harry insists.

Still, he doesn’t go in. 

He sits, and sits, and sits, letting the minutes slide by as white horses roll through woven pastures in front of him, cold stone pressing against his back. He wonders if Malfoy dyed the tapestries himself with flower petals from the garden, but they’re faded and the thread is coming loose at the ends, so probably not.

On the days that Malfoy isn’t working, he accompanies Harry throughout the Manor like a washed-out shadow. He walks with Harry along creaking corridors and sits in the conservatory while Harry takes “notes” on bullshit things like the curvature of the glass and the width of the dome. Because that’s what architecture students do, right? Harry’s not sure, but he doesn’t have anything better to do. 

Thankfully, Malfoy doesn’t ask about his notes. He does talk a lot, though, usually about nothing in particular. He talks about the weather (“dreadful”), his work (“exhausting”), his ancestors (“insufferable”), and so many other things that Harry can’t keep up with, so he doesn’t. He just listens quietly, hands in his pockets as they step in tandem down a grand set of stairs, wander through the gardens, drink tea in the kitchen. Malfoy’s voice is like a steady stream cutting a path through Harry’s brain, always moving forwards, never swelling, never abiding. Simply moving. 

Harry doesn’t mind. 

Some days they eat lunch together, usually in the kitchen, but sometimes in other parts of the house. They always start lunch in the kitchen, Malfoy warming a loaf of rosemary bread in the wood oven while Harry slices garden tomatoes next to the sink. Then Malfoy picks up his plate and beckons Harry to the lounge, or the parlor, or even the music room to eat together — Harry’s personal favorite.

It’s a long, white-paneled room decorated in blues and golds, tall windows peering over a shallow pond just east of the rose gardens. Twisting tendrils of ivy inch across the glass panes, and there are large, cheerful-looking house plants lining the generous windowsills and spilling over the sides of the grand piano. The floors are bare and the ceiling is painted with a moving fresco of a deep summer sky, and Harry gets a bit lost in it the first time he looks up. 

Malfoy, sitting with his legs pulled up on the piano bench, swallows a bite of his sandwich and teases, “What, never seen a sky before?”

“It’s beautiful,” is all Harry manages to reply, neck craned back as far as it can go. The clouds above shift; fake sunlight sifts through them in bronze rays. Malfoy’s cheeks turn a muted shade of pink, and he looks away. 

Another reason Harry likes this room is that, sometimes, Malfoy turns on the piano bench and begins to play. 

He’s not phenomenal at it — his pale fingers slip around a bit, and he plays the wrong chord every now and then — but he’s good enough that Harry has no problem watching him with open awe. He plays with loose shoulders and a curved spine, losing his typical rigid composure and letting the notes fill the space like oxygen, breathed in by the floorboards, absorbed by the wallpaper. It’s mesmerizing and imperfect, and Harry can’t look away. Can’t believe that this is his _job._

If his sixteen-year-old self could see him now, he would probably laugh. Or throw up. Or maybe just stare, because Harry’s finding it quite hard to do anything else. 

“Pachelbel,” Malfoy says once he finishes, looking at Harry. 

“Oh,” Harry says, even though he has no idea who that is. Malfoy’s mouth quirks and he turns to start another song.

Some mornings, Malfoy takes him to the library and spends a solid hour or two lumping thick, leather-bound studies about the Manor into Harry’s arms, some of which date as far back as the thirteen-hundreds. Harry’s eyes boggle, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell Malfoy that he probably won’t read a single one. Hermione already sent him upwards of fifteen books on wizarding architecture, and so far he’s only managed to get through one. Plus, it’s not like he actually needs to be an expert; he just needs to know enough not to humiliate himself when asked a simple question like “who invented columns?” Though he doubts Malfoy would ever ask that; he probably knows better than Harry does. 

The library is nice, which is a sentence Harry never thought he’d think to himself. But it is. It also reminds him so staunchly of Hogwarts that he feels weird talking in a normal voice, afraid that Madam Pince might pop out from behind a shelf and sniff her beakish nose disapprovingly at him. But, aside from that, it’s nice. 

He and Malfoy stroll through the mounting labyrinth of shelves seemingly without a care in the world, letting their feet drag against the hardwood, listening to the rhythm of the rain against the pointed windows. Eventually, after piling their arms high with memoirs and research papers, they come to a stop in front of a lavish sitting area complete with an upholstered settee and a deep fireplace. In silent agreement, Malfoy lights the fire and they slump together onto the forest green rug.

Despite Harry’s disinterest, they crack open their books together and begin to leaf through them one by one, the smell of yellowed pages and old ink tickling Harry’s nose. He doesn’t actually _read_ them, but he does skim over their illustrations with fascination, tracing the outlines of ancient floor plans with his pinky finger, arrows pointing to foreign words like “tympanum”, “belfry”, and “ribbed vault”. 

“Here,” Malfoy says every few minutes, passing dog-eared books to Harry and pointing his rugged fingernails at certain passages or pictures that could help with his so-called research.

“Thanks,” Harry replies every time, not really looking at them and watching Malfoy’s hands, bones rippling beneath pale skin, fire warming his feet.

Other days, Malfoy leaves him to his own devices and gets lost in novels that have nothing to do with the Manor. Harry recognizes some titles — _A Clockwork Orange, Middlemarch,_ _Pride and Prejudice_ — all of which are noticeably Muggle, noticeably mundane. He’s never read any of them, but it’s much more entertaining to watch Malfoy read them instead. He always lies on his back with his feet propped on the raised brick base of the hearth, book held high over his face, eyebrows pinched and lips moving ever-so-slightly around the shapes and sounds of Muggle words. 

One time, he sits up, a Charles Dickens novel open in his lap. “You’re a half-blood,” he says eyes bright on Harry.

Harry looks up from a boring essay about the revolutionary uses of stone lintels in the fifteenth century. The light from the hearth is making pleasant shapes on Malfoy’s cheekbones. “I am,” he replies carefully.

Malfoy leans forward. “Do you know what on Earth a telegram is?”

“Um.” Harry props himself up on his elbows as his brows draw together. “I’m not really sure,” he admits. “I think they’re, like— electric letters.”

“You mean i-mails?”

Harry smiles softly. “Emails,” he corrects. “But, yeah, I guess. In a way. They were meant for sending messages across seas during wars, and stuff. People don’t use them anymore.”

“Well, obviously.” Malfoy rolls his eyes and flops back down. “They seem dreadfully inefficient.” Then, he sits up again. “Do you know how emails work?”

Days like these pass in a whirl of blue and yellow and green and white, and before Harry knows it, a week goes by, and then another, and then it’s the end of October, and the people of Tisbury are putting carved pumpkins on their doorsteps and stringing orange and purple lights between the street lamps. The hours of sunlight get shorter and the tumbling wind gets harsher, but Harry’s happy. He doesn’t think he’s ever been happy on a case before, but he is. He basks in it.

Except— well. It’s not all happy. Some days, Harry looks askance at Malfoy and has to catch his breath sharply. Has to slow his jumping pulse. 

Sometimes, Malfoy’s head is tilted just enough that the light catches and reflects off his peaked nose and long chin, and he looks so much like the boy he used to be that it makes Harry nauseous. Sometimes, he sneers, or laughs, or pinches his mouth, and Harry can’t see anyone else but the slicked-back, pretentious Slytherin that used to bully first-years and call Hermione ‘Mudblood’.

Sometimes, all Harry sees is the Mark. 

_A drunken tattoo,_ Mykah called it. He’s not so sure. 

He tries to remember her words — her cool, weighted words insisting that Malfoy has changed for the better, has grown up out of his prejudices. But part of Harry knows that proximity to Muggles and Muggleborns doesn’t equate to acceptance or understanding of them. Malfoy could be married to a Muggleborn and have a litter of little half-blooded babies running around, and Harry would still be skeptical. 

_“Hate is learned,”_ Hermione always says. _“It can always be unlearned, but it’s hard. Really hard. That’s why there’s so much of it.”_

Malfoy doesn’t _seem_ hateful anymore. Not in the way he used to. He just seems… dulled. Like the bright, malicious bulb in his chest has fizzled out into a wavering spark. Yet he seems sure of himself. So settled into his skin, instead of tailoring it to fit the person he used to be. 

It’s strange, sometimes, to look up at Malfoy as he sits at the piano in the music room or waters plants in the conservatory. It’s strange to think that he’s the same mold of flesh and bone as the eleven-year-old boy in the too-big robes at Madam Malkin’s. As the boy on the broom with the Remembrall clutched in his tiny fist. As the boy in the bathroom gripping onto the sink, wet tracks streaking the skin under his eyes. 

He’s confusing. Harry’s confused. But mostly, he’s happy. He sticks to that. 

“Question,” he says one Thursday morning as they walk up an unpaved path just outside Tisbury, identical paper cups of coffee in their gloved hands. The path cuts through the woods like an artery, lazily winding up into the hills where it eventually spills out onto the gravel road in front of the estate.

Malfoy looks at him, scarf flapping around his neck. “Mm?”

Harry keeps his voice carefully neutral as he asks, “How did you start working at the shop?” When Malfoy’s forehead creases, he clarifies, “I mean, working for Mykah. She mentioned that you’d only been there a few years. I thought— originally I thought it was your own shop. Like, you started it.”

“Oh,” Malfoy replies mildly. “Well, no, I didn’t start it. It was a business before I came along, just, sort of a worn-out one. Mykah inherited it from her parents when they moved out of town about five years ago.”

“I thought her parents were Muggles?” 

“They are, but the building itself has always been accommodating of magic,” Malfoy says. “Most buildings in town are. That’s why we were able to set up a two-way Floo to the location in Diagon. My idea, by the way.” He smirks proudly at Harry, earning him an exasperated look. “Anyway, her parents had no idea about the magical capabilities of the store until one day — she tells this story far better than I do — Mykah accidentally walked into a basement that had never existed before.”

Harry's eyebrows lift. “Because of the Fidelius?”

“Yes, I believe," Malfoy says. "Only the charm was a bit buggy back then because it had been hidden for so long. After a bit of research Mykah figured that the Secret-Keeper must have died and taken part of the bond to their grave.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes. Pleasant, isn’t it?”

Harry wrinkles his nose, then prompts, “So, she found the basement and then…?”

Malfoy shrugs with one shoulder. “And then that was that. Her parents had been wanting to move away for a while, and finding out that the store had magic capabilities was enough of a sign for them to sod off and leave it all in her hands. It wasn't very successful back then, but since she started running it, business picked up like a tropical storm.”

“Running it alone?” Harry gawks.

“No, of course not. She’s not an all-powerful demigod, much as she may look it,” Malfoy snorts. “She has employees. Only for working the till, though, not for cultivating furniture. Who do you think runs the place while I’m not there?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to shrug. “I haven’t thought about it. But— hang on, I’m confused. You work for her, but you— aren’t you also self-employed?” His hands are in his pockets, and his fingertips brush the crumpled business card that he stuffed in there over a week ago, the one that says _“Malfoy Restorations and Refurbishings, est. 2001”_ on it. 

Malfoy huffs out a short laugh, warm breath materializing in a puff of white in front of him. “Essentially, yes. I’m self-employed in that I work on my own schedule and take personalized commissions that have nothing to do with her, but all the pieces that aren’t commissioned are sold through the store. So I work for her, too. Kind of.”

“Oh,” Harry says, still confused.

Malfoy takes pity on his crumpled brow and adds, “It’s a bit complicated, I know. But the only way for me to get my name and company out into the open was to find a retail seller. I couldn’t just— well. You know.” He waves his hand vaguely, digging his chin into his scarf. 

“Right,” Harry replies. It wouldn’t be easy to find clientele so soon after the war with a name like ‘Malfoy’. “Okay. I think I get it.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches. “Mykah was the only one who’d take me in. She wasn’t— she didn’t really care about my, um.” He coughs. “My past. Or, she did care, but she didn’t think I was evil. She pitied me. I don’t blame her; I was a right mess when I showed up on her doorstep begging for a job. But she took me in anyway. Even despite...”

“Good of her,” Harry cuts in, unsure what else he can say as Malfoy trails off. His eyes are fixed in the distance and glazed over as they walk. 

“Mm,” he replies, and Harry notices he does that a lot. Hums instead of using real words. 

Harry breathes in through his nose, and the cool smell of the trees engulfs him. “So,” he starts again after he’s exhaled. “You were fixing antiques before you started working for her?”

Malfoy blinks and jolts out a disbelieving laugh. “Did you not hear everything I just said? The whole _reason_ I started working for her was because I was fixing antiques. Far too many of them. I needed a market to get rid of them so I could go off and find more.”

“Go off to places like Atlantis?”

“Precisely.”

Another question pops up in Harry’s head. “Was it called Atlantis Antiques before you started working there?”

At this, Malfoy smiles. Small, bashful. “No, it wasn’t. She changed it after I showed her a set of pottery I’d bought after my first expedition there.” He glances at Harry. “Those vases are a crowd-pleaser.”

“Clearly.” Harry is quietly impressed. “And so now, you’re, what. Business partners? Or are you still her employee?”

“Yes,” Malfoy replies, then reconsiders. “No. Maybe. She doesn’t pay me a salary, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t, but good to know.” 

“You know,” Malfoy says, turning so he’s walking sideways down the lane, long wool coat snapping and bending in the wind. “You’re quite the interrogator.”

A small lump of panic lodges into Harry’s throat. “I’m just curious,” he says lightly, looking away from Malfoy and at the sprawling road ahead. They should be near the Manor now. 

“Curiosity killed the crup, Nicholas,” Malfoy sing-songs, turning back to face the front.

Harry frowns a little, trying to force his cheeks to cool down. “Wouldn’t it be kneazle?”

“What?”

“Curiosity killed the kneazle.”

“Kneazle doesn’t start with a ‘c’, imbecile.”

“Yeah, but— nevermind.”

Malfoy laughs again, low and breathy, and it brushes the trees like the tumbling wind. 

Harry glances at him. His face is red; he flushes too easily. “How did you start fixing antiques?” he asks, changing the subject back. 

Malfoy grins, all pointed-canines and chapped lips. “More questions?”

“I’m curious!”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry nettles, not really meaning it. “I’m just trying to have a conversation with you.”

“In that case,” Malfoy rolls his eyes buoyantly. “I’ve always been good at fixing things. Old magical things, specifically. Artifacts and whatnot.”

“Really? You popped out of your mother’s womb knowing exactly how to stain enchanted tea cabinets?”

Malfoy jabs a finger at him. “You leave my mother out of this. And, no, I just mean I’ve always had a knack for craftsmen magic. I fixed a lot of things in my spare time when I was a teenager.”

“Oh?” Harry feels a creeping grin tug at his lips. “No girlfriend to keep you occupied?”

This time, Malfoy makes contact with him, shoving at his shoulder and making him stumble off the path. “You’re _insufferable_.”

Harry catches himself against a scraggly pine tree, pushing off it to bump his shoulder against Malfoy’s playfully. “I’m not hearing any denial.”

“Please,” Malfoy scoffs. “I was above dating.”

“You bloody weren’t!” Harry protests. “I may be younger than you, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t notice things. You did have a girlfriend, didn’t you? Fourth-year, or something?”

Malfoy looks at him. “So you’re an interrogator _and_ stalker.”

“I’m observant!”

“So are stalkers.”

“Parkinson,” Harry cuts in. “Pansy Parkinson. You two dated fourth-year. And, in my defense, you were hard to miss.” He flicks his gaze up to Malfoy’s hair meaningfully. One long, platinum tuft has fallen out from behind his ear and is brushing into his face. He doesn’t move to tuck it away, but he does reach up to touch his head consciously.

“Like my hair, do you?” He smirks.

Refusing to blush, Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s _reflective._ You’re like a walking disco ball. Or maybe a highlighter.”

“I do not know what a highlighter is, but I’ll have to disagree. Unless highlighters are good things.” Malfoy glances over. “Are highlighters good things?”

“No, not in this context. I’m trying to say that you’re a freak with freakish hair.”

“Thanks ever so.” He looks away. “I didn’t date Pansy Parkinson.”

Harry side-eyes him. “Sure seemed like you did.”

“Well, I didn’t.” They round a bend in the road. Up ahead, the spikes of the front gate emerge from the layer of white fog.

Harry thinks of Parkinson, her smushed nose and sharp bob, long fingers stroking Malfoy’s hair as he lay in front of her, head in her lap, and decides to change the subject. “We’re getting off-topic,” he points out. “You fixed old shit in your free time while you were at Hogwarts, and suddenly thought you could make a career out of it?”

 _“Old shit,_ Malfoy repeats incredulously. “Artifacts, Nicholas. Ancient, complicated, wicked artifacts. That’s what I fixed. And I _did_ make a career out of it.”

“Because you felt like it?”

“Because I could.”

Harry suddenly stops in the middle of the road. “The Vanishing Cabinet,” he says. It’s not a question.

Malfoy stops, too. If he pales it’s hard to tell. “Pardon?”

“The Vanishing Cabinet,” Harry repeats, feeling like he’s overturned the final piece of a puzzle. “You— you fixed a Vanishing Cabinet when you were at Hogwarts. Is that what you’re talking about?”

Something dark slides over Malfoy’s face. “How do you know about that?” he asks, and his tone is flat, rigid. 

“I—” Harry cuts himself off. _Shit._ Was the Vanishing Cabinet not common knowledge? It had to be, didn’t it? It was the whole reason—

Malfoy looks at him expectantly. 

“Um,” Harry stalls, trying to think of something plausible. “Rumors?” he lands on awkwardly.

“Rumors,” Malfoy says, not believing him.

“Yeah,” Harry says and begins walking again, footsteps hesitant against the dirt under his feet. “Yeah, rumors.” He can feel Malfoy’s leaden gaze against the back of his head. Before he can say anything, Harry pushes on; “It’s true, then?”

A long pause. Then, the ground crunches, and Malfoy comes up beside him. “Yes,” he says, but the word is a stone dropped into a pond; heavy, disturbing. 

“Oh,” Harry replies, trying his best to sound surprised. It comes sort of wobbly. “Okay. Well—”

“That’s not why, though.”

Harry looks over. “What?”

Malfoy doesn’t look back. His eyes are glazed like cut glass. “That’s not why I started repairing things. I didn’t—” He pauses, jaw working. “That one didn’t count. I was fixing things long before I ever had to fix that.”

Harry knits his brow. “When did you start?”

Now, finally, Malfoy spares him a glance. Fleeting. “When I was nine.”

“That young?”

He nods. “I accidentally broke an ancient sculpture that belonged to my great-great-grandparents when I was practicing wandless magic. Foul-looking thing, honestly — I was quite pleased I broke it — but my father was furious when he found out. He told me I’d have to repair it or else...”

A pause.

“Or else what?”

Maloy shakes his head. “I don’t remember. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. I fixed the damn thing. Took me nearly a month, but I did it.”

It’s a lie. Harry can tell. But the last thing he wants to talk about is Lucius Malfoy and his chosen forms of juvenile punishment. “And you enjoyed doing it?”

Malfoy shrugs. “No, but I was good at it. It was rewarding.” He considers his cup of coffee for a moment, takes a sip, then Banishes it so he can shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “That’s part of why I kept doing it. A big part.”

Harry watches him, then asks, “Was the Vanishing Cabinet rewarding?”

Malfoy stops walking, and Harry realizes they’ve come to the gate. Through its bars he can see a pearl-colored peacock trotting along the drive, feathers tucked away. The yellow leaves of the elm trees lean towards it, beckoning and crooked. 

“No,” Malfoy answers quietly. “Not in the least.”

Before Harry can respond, he turns around and pushes the gate open.

* * *

“Tell me about your parents.”

They’re sitting in the music room, Harry on the windowsill and Malfoy on the piano bench, legs folded, stomachs full of warm Indian food. It’s hailing small, ant-sized pellets of ice outside, bouncing off the window panes and rippling the teal-colored pond in the distance. 

It was awkward for a little while after talking about the Vanishing Cabinet — Malfoy had skulked off to his workshop for an hour, claiming he had "something to wrap up", leaving Harry to his own devices. Feeling odd and discomforted, Harry wandered off to the East Wing and sat in front of the Dementor Room for a while, spacing out, not really looking at the tapestries. He was worried that he'd shaken Malfoy, made him uncomfortable, and he began to feel bad about asking so many questions. But he couldn't help it. Everything was starting to make a little more sense — Vanishing Cabinet was another chip in the mosaic that brought a bigger picture into play, and Harry was finally, _finally_ beginning to understand Malfoy. Understand his angle. Except, now, he was worried he ruined it all by asking too many questions. Being too intrusive.

But then — like a messenger sent by Merlin himself — Gimly the house elf popped into the East Wing and informed Harry that "Lord Malfoy is being in the kitchen requesting you join him, sir."

When Harry made it to the kitchen, nearly out of breath, Malfoy looked up from where he was reading a thick, annotated cookbook and asked, "Have you ever made tikka masala?" And then everything felt straightened out again.

They spent nearly the entire morning in the kitchen together figuring out how to make it from scratch, and now, sitting with his feet propped up on the windowsill, Harry’s head is filled with the lingering smells of ginger, garlic, and paprika. It was one of the best meals he’s ever had, made even better by the steady rhythm of hail against the glass and the soft music playing from the gramophone in the corner. It’s a Muggle band that he recognizes but can’t remember the name of, with lulling female vocals and gentle, twangy acoustics that echo around the high-ceilings. He's basking in all of it like a cat in the sun, enjoying every bit of it, right up until Malfoy asks that question. 

“Sorry?” Harry lifts his head from where it’s been resting against the window, cheek cold. 

Malfoy has his elbows on his knees, sitting sideways on the piano bench. “I told you about mine,” he says, leaning forward. “It’s your turn.”

 _My parents,_ Harry thinks, foggy. “You only told me about your mother,” he says carefully.

Malfoy gives him a dubious look. “You want to know about my father?”

Harry’s throat feels dry. “Not really.”

“Didn’t think so.” Malfoy lifts his chin. “Go on, then. Tell me about yours.”

Mouth pressing into a line, Harry fixes his gaze back outside, suddenly wildly uncomfortable. A streak of rain trickles down the glass right in front of his nose. “There’s not much to tell,” he says after a moment, quiet.

“I don’t believe you.”

Harry blows a stream of air through his lips, then sits up and draws one leg to his chest. “They live in London,” he starts, trying to remember what was on his disguise file. Trying not to let the word ‘live’ trip him up. “They— my mum’s a Muggle. My dad’s not. They both grew up in Devon.”

When Harry stops, Malfoy prods, “Is that all? What are they like?”

“Er. I don’t know.” Harry pulls his other leg up to his chest, closing in on himself. He doesn’t want to do this. “They’re nice, I guess.”

“What do they do?”

Harry frowns. Tries to picture the file in his mind. “My mum works at a law firm. My dad…” He racks his brain, jaw clenching. “My dad’s a writer.”

“A writer?” Malfoy perks up. “Do I know any of his work?”

 _No._ “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“What does he write about?”

 _I don’t know._ “All sorts of stuff.”

“How specific,” Malfoy intones. He leans back. “If you don’t want to say, that’s fine. I know some writers like to distance themselves from their pen names for privacy reasons.”

That sounds plausible, Harry thinks. “He does.”

“Alright, then. How did they meet? Your parents?”

Harry stills. That wasn’t on his file. “They’ve… never told me.”

“Really?” Malfoy raises his eyebrows. “How strange. Most half-bloods I know are always going on about how their parents met. I thought it was quite a big deal to them.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek. The words aren’t offensive, but they hit a sore spot in his chest. The one that’s bruised with the lost touch of his parents. “I never asked,” he manages out. 

“You should,” Malfoy goes on, not sharing the same sentiment. “When you get a chance. I’m sure it’s a riveting story, a lawyer and a writer.”

“I’m sure,” Harry repeats, not really processing the words. Mind blank as a canvas. He unfolds his legs and stands up. “Can we go up to the roof?”

Malfoy looks up, his stupid hair falling into his eyes again. “It’s hailing,” he says, incredulous.

“We’ll use an Umbrella Charm.”

He spares a wary glance outside, then sighs. “If you insist.”

* * *

On the rooftop, they don’t speak. 

They stand near each other, the shimmering veil of an Umbrella Charm arching above and around them like the bud of a sunflower. It shelters them from the onslaught of ice, crowding them together as they lean their elbows on the gothic battlements. Down below, the trees slump with the weight of the rain, and the grass is a brilliant shade of emerald green. 

In most books Harry’s read — which is, to say, not many — rain is always described as something that dulls the world. Tampers it down, sheathes it in grey. But he’s always thought that rain makes things brighter. That it soaks into the earth and makes it richer, deeper. That it brings out the greens and the blues and the yellows and makes them stand out against the asphalt sky, dripping with pigment.

That’s how it looks now, he thinks, gazing down at the Manor. It’s not “angry rain”; it’s just rain.

Malfoy shifts beside him and his elbow brushes Harry’s. He’s wearing a maroon cable-knit jumper that’s soft to the touch, even through the sleeve of Harry’s thermal. 

Harry doesn’t move his arm away.

Like the trees below, he feels himself curving inward towards Malfoy, weighted down subconsciously. Malfoy’s bicep is bleeding with warmth. _Strange,_ Harry thinks. He seems like someone who would be cold at all times. But he’s not.

If he notices Harry leaning on him, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

As Harry looks down on the wavering grounds, the dark soil of the herb gardens, the white blossoms of the magnolias, he thinks of his parents. His real ones; not the ones who grew up in Devon and live in London. He thinks of his mother’s shock of red hair, his father’s pearly grin. His mother’s crinkled eyes. His father’s stubble. 

Halloween is soon. He doesn’t normally think about his parents much unless it’s in good spirits. In times of hope. After the war, he decided that he’d done enough brooding over them. Enough yearning for their touch. Enough to last him well into another lifetime. So he doesn’t think of them, except on Halloween, when he can’t think of anything but them.

He never visits Godric’s Hollow on Halloween. Always the day after, when the crowds have cleared away and left behind mountains of flowers, wreaths, and well-wishing cards that their recipients will never see. He used to visit the graveyard once a month, kneeling before the mossy headstones, talking to his parents about everything and nothing at the same time. “Ron and Hermione have adopted a cat,” he’d say. “I’ve gotten a promotion at work.” He’d imagine their kind faces nodding back at him, smiling, congratulating him. Telling him how proud they are.

That got old fast. Especially when Harry started running out of things to say. 

So he stopped visiting. The mountains of flowers wilted. The moss crept over his parents’ names. And then they were nothing but graves; pieces of stone sticking out of the pliant soil. Welcoming the snow; soaking up the rain.

As a brush of hail blows sidelong into him, Harry wobbles even closer to Malfoy, despite the ice being broken down by the Umbrella Charm before it can reach them. “Sorry,” he murmurs as their shoulders knock together, but Malfoy just shakes his head. 

“That’s alright,” he says, and he moves to press back almost imperceptibly. Leaning on Harry; returning his kinetic energy. Harry feels a gush of warmth over the back of his neck, down his spinal cord. It’s not from a Warming Charm.

It’s as if liquid fire has been injected into his veins, burning him up from the inside-out, consuming him.

He looks down at the hands that don’t belong to him — unfamiliar fingernails, knobby knuckles — and wonders if the person he’s stepped inside had parents that loved him. That tucked him in every night when he was young and made him breakfast in the morning. That taught him how to walk, run, and fly. That grew up in Devon, lived in London. 

He wonders how this person ended up donating his DNA to the Ministry. How he became just another disguise among a maze of them, nameless, lifeless. A tool to the government. A tool to Harry. He wonders, and wonders, and doesn’t stop wondering until the hail has stopped and the Umbrella Charm has worn away, leaving him and Malfoy pressed arm-to-arm on the battlements of the Manor with no excuses. No buffer. 

He looks at Malfoy, no words forthcoming. The blonde has his head tilted down, eyes lidded as he gazes on the land below. His hair is wild, curling at the ends, framing his face in tendrils. 

There isn’t a trace of the boy he used to be in his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. Not a single trace.

“I should go,” Harry says after a while, and Malfoy turns his head. Meets Harry’s gaze steadily, like iron.

“Have other plans, do you?” he asks. His cheeks are ruby; his lips scarlet. Harry’s not sure why he notices — or cares, for that matter — but he does. 

“You could say that.”

Malfoy’s gaze flashes and he turns fully to look at Harry. “Are you going to tell me why you dragged me up here in the pouring rain? Or are you going to continue being all mysterious?”

“Mysterious,” Harry repeats, brow lifting. “I like the sound of that.”

“Do you?” 

“A bit, yeah. Am I really?”

“You’re obviously trying to be.”

“Am not!” 

“Are too. You’ve got this whole dark, brooding look going on. Are you brooding?” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“So, you’re not going to tell me why we’re up here,” Malfoy concludes, folding his arms. There are small beads of water clinging to the cashmere on his narrow shoulders. 

“Do I need a reason?” 

“Not necessarily, but it would be nice if you had one.”

Harry breaks their eye contact to look back out over the grounds, all water-logged and rich. “I just wanted to.”

“You just _wanted_ to stand in the pouring rain.”

Harry shrugs. 

Malfoy laughs, exasperated, and shakes his head. “Merlin, alright. Go home you oaf, before we both catch hypothermia.”

“I mean, it’s not my fault you’re not properly dressed.” Harry reaches out and plucks at Malfoy’s sleeve. It’s impossibly soft, just as he expected.

“ _Goodbye_ , Nicholas. Good grief.” Malfoy shoves him off, but the spots on his cheekbones are tinted dark. Something wiggles in Harry's chest.

“Goodbye, Draco,” he says.

* * *

When he falls asleep that night, duvet pulled up to his chin, orange streetlights making patterns on the curtains of his four-poster, he dreams of his parents. He dreams of their soft hands holding onto Harry, cradling him, running their fingers through his hair. He dreams of graveyards, and green eyes, and flowers with brown, dried petals. 

He also dreams of tikka masala, and rain, and piano benches, and cashmere sweaters, and hair so blonde it’s nearly white. 

It’s the best dream he’s had in years.

* * *

The following Monday, he’s startled awake by the lovely sound of sharp talons scrabbling frantically at his bedroom window. He stumbles out of bed half-asleep, grumbling, almost tripping over a pillow he discarded during the night as he reaches the window and unlatches it. A Ministry owl comes careening inside seconds after he gets the glass pane unstuck, bold and brawny with hefty brown feathers, and he remembers with an uncomfortable lurch that he's still on duty. That his time in Wiltshire and at the Manor isn't happening for fun.

“Easy,” he hushes at the owl harshly, hoping that the daft thing hasn’t made a racket in case the cafe has opened. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t wait for a response after he finishes untying the envelope from its thin ankle, screeching loudly and flapping back out into the overcast sky without a second thought. He watches it go with bleary eyes, the morning breeze sifting through the open window, bleeding through his t-shirt and flannel trousers. He yawns, scrubs a hand through his nest of hair, then tears the envelope open to find an alarmingly short note with MLE’s logo emblazoned at the top.

__

> _Dear Agent Green, Level 13 Undercover Operative for the Department of Mysteries:_
> 
> _The Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement formally requests your attendance at a debriefing conference this afternoon at 13:00 concerning the matter of your current case. Head Unspeakable Rosa Torres, Agent Bates (Assistant Undercover Operative), Auror Fitzgerald, and I will all be present at said conference._
> 
> _Please arrive in your standard department-issued Polyjuice concealment as to not break the Unspeakable code of conduct, requested by Head Unspeakable Torres. Thank you._

At the bottom of the page is Head Auror Robard’s unmistakable signature, wide and loopy. Harry stares at it, confused, wondering if the sleep in his eyes is making him hallucinate. Bates didn’t mention anything about a conference during their last phone call, and being pulled out of an active case for a debriefing session is extremely rare. Even for MLE. Shaking his head to clear the blur from his vision, he crosses the room and pats around the pockets of his winter coat hanging on the door, pulling out his Muggle cell.

“What the fuck does Robards want?” he demands as soon as Bates picks up the other line.

 _“You got a note too,”_ she deduces, sighing into the receiver. 

“Yes, I got a note! Were you aware this was happening?” Harry sits back on his bed with the note in one hand, phone in the other, the mattress bouncing beneath him. The ticking clock on the wall informs him that it’s barely past seven, and he wants nothing more than to crawl back under his warm sheets and fall asleep. To return to that dreamland with dried flowers and heavy rain and grey irises. 

_“Not until this morning,”_ Bates replies. _“I have a feeling they’re calling a meeting because they’re getting impatient with us.”_

Harry notices that her voice has changed slightly, sounding brassier than he’s ever heard it. Meaning she’s probably not in disguise. He realizes he’s not in disguise either, and they’re probably breaking some sort of rule by talking to each other. “Robards and Torres?” he clarifies after a moment, blinking the fog out of his eyes and trying to refocus. 

_“No, not Torres. Robards and his Homicide Division. Torres couldn’t give two shits about what we’re doing.”_

“Clearly she does if she’s making us meet up with them during the middle of an active investigation,” Harry counters. “Have you spoken with her lately?”

_“Not since that horrible department-unity meeting a couple of weeks ago.”_

“I forgot about that. Why is Robards so obsessed with Mysteries?”

Bates scoffs. _“Obsessed with this case, more like. I’m sure that Draco and his mother being pardoned of all charges was like a slap in the face when he was conducting all the Death Eater arrests after the war. He probably foamed at the mouth when he found out he might have another chance to arrest them.”_

She says it lightly, but it sends a shiver down Harry’s back. He knows firsthand how eager Robards was to capture all the remaining Death Eaters; he had been personally tasked with hunting them down. But imagining Malfoy behind bars is not something he wants to do — not now, not even a little bit. “Well if he was so intent on arresting Malfoy then he shouldn’t have let his Aurors drive the case into a dead-end. Seven people are dead, and the only fragment of a lead they could come up with was sitting in someone’s trash bin.”

_“I know. It’s ridiculous. And it’s not their responsibility anymore!”_

“And yet they just can’t back off.”

Bates sighs again, low and gusty. Harry pictures her pinching the bridge of her nose. _“I’ll see you later today, alright? We can regroup then. I’ll try to talk to Torres before the conference and get her angle on all this.”_

“Yeah, okay.” Harry nods limply. The last thing he wants to do is Apparate all the way back to London for a meeting that will do nothing but mentally exhaust him, but he doesn’t really have a choice. It would be nice to see Bates in person, he supposes; he’s missed her face, disguised as it may be. “It’s still weird that they’re interrupting an investigation to do this.”

_“I know it is. We won’t let them off easy, okay? Robards is asking for a hard time and we’ll give it to him.”_

Harry nods, feeling slightly better, but still groggy enough that her words sound fuzzy, half-baked. “Okay. Should I still go to the Manor today?”

_“Since we’re not meeting until the afternoon, yes. That would probably be best.”_

“Right, okay.”

_“Give Draco my regards.”_

Harry rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “I’ll do no such thing.”

There’s a faint, wry laugh. _“Good bloke. I’ll see you soon.”_

“Yeah, soon.” The receiver beeps and Harry pulls the phone away from his ear. Falls back onto his unmade bed, mind reeling. 

“Fucking Robards,” he mutters to the weathered wood boards above his head. To his disappointment, they don’t respond.

* * *

High noon in the city is probably Harry’s least favorite time of day. The sky is the same shade of grey as the pavement, soupy and sluggish, burdened with smog. Rows of cars jam-pack the roads like rodents to a discarded pizza slice, clogging up the crosswalks while white-collar workers holding phones to their ears dart between them. The faint smells of metal and cigarette smoke hover on the street corners like over-eager flyer peddlers. It’s a shock to the system after being tucked away among the expansive hills and valleys of Wiltshire, and Harry can’t help but scrunch his nose as he walks, head bent, shoes clicking on the asphalt. 

To the outside eye, he blends in perfectly with the mid-day lunch crowd; his wrinkled grey button-up and straight trousers suggest that he’s just another fragment of the working class. He’s swapped out his normal Polyjuice disguise for his department-issued one, the one that all Undercover Operatives wear while they’re on Ministry property. It’s far more boring than his Nicholas Rivers disguise; it’s a middle-aged white man with cracked, pale skin, and hair that’s the color of foggy dishwater. 

This disguise — this sad, slightly saggy disguise with veiny undertones of bruised blue — is Agent Green. This is who Harry’s colleagues know him as. This is home base. 

But it feels odd in a way it’s never felt before. Like the skin of the disguise is particularly heavy, hanging off Harry’s bones instead of molding to them. Like he can feel the Polyjuice working through his bloodstream. It’s probably because he’s been using the other facade of Nicholas every single day for a near month — much longer than he’s ever had to remain undercover — and it makes him itchy. Restless. 

The city doesn't help his restlessness whatsoever. The rigid concrete buildings creep around him like weeds in a withered garden, caging him in as he stalks determinedly down Charing Cross Road towards the Leaky. He finds himself inexplicably yearning for the sweet, ambrosial smells of the Manor grounds, the chipper voices of the magpies, the tinkling of the wind chimes. He slipped out of the Manor earlier that morning with a flimsy excuse, telling Malfoy he had “plans” with an old friend and couldn’t stay to make lunch. A flicker of disappointment crossed Malfoy’s face, but it lasted no more than a second and he waved Harry away with a curt “no worries”, turning back to his book and refusing to watch as Harry stepped out of the library. 

Harry regrets it, now. In the time it takes to get from the end of the block to the doorstep of the Leaky Cauldron, he debates Apparating back to Wiltshire at least six times. Only the thought of potentially getting to yell at Robards is what propels him through the door of the run-down pub and into Diagon Alley.

“S’cuse me,” someone mutters after Harry has stepped through the brick entryway, their shoulder jostling him as they walk in the opposite direction. 

“Sorry,” Harry replies, his now-unfamiliar voice sounding gruff and timeworn as he moves out of the way. Diagon is bustling, but not in the way it used to be; where there once were hoards of children buying clothes and gifts for the upcoming holidays, there are only haggard-looking wizards lugging dense briefcases and witches with bags of clinking potions hanging off their arms. Some shops that closed during the war have yet to be reopened, splintered wood nailed across their windows, red and white graffiti marring their bolted doors. 

A monochrome filter has settled over the street like a layer of dust, dull and desaturating. It’s a depressing sight only alleviated by the unlit fairy lights stringing from roof to roof and the stacks of jack o’ lanterns lining the walkway; meek traces of holiday spirit, but spirit nonetheless.

Harry muscles through the harried throng of people with his eyes pinned intentionally to the cobbled ground, not daring to meet anyone’s eye. The path to the Ministry Apparition Point is usually a straight shot from the Leaky, but the lurching crowd forces him to swerve and stumble on his way there. At one point, he bumps sideways into a grand mural of Dumbledore that’s painted on the side of Fortescue’s in silver and white. Fortescue’s was, supposedly, Dumbledore’s favorite ice cream shop; the mural was unveiled on the one-year anniversary of his death a month after the Battle. Harry was asked to deliver a few words at the unveiling ceremony. He politely declined.

Apparating into the Atrium is like Apparating into a beehive. It’s just as busy down here as it is above ground, voices pinging off the slick walls as people stride briskly across the polished floors. Harry feels on edge the moment he lands, like he might get stung if he makes the wrong step. 

The lift down ride isn’t much better, stuffy and tense, Harry pressed up against the back wall stiffly, but it’s always been that way. No one spares him as much as a glance.

Stepping off the lift onto Level Nine is like plunging into a frozen lake compared to the Atrium; the corridor is empty, the air dank and frigid even with the ever-burning torches lining the walls. Harry mutters a quick “thank you” to the lift operator and feels a prompt shiver run down his back as the metal doors clang shut behind him. 

“Green!” he hears a voice call barely a moment later, and he pivots around to peer down one of the splintering hallways. Sure enough, Agent Bates is walking briskly towards him, braided hair flapping behind her, black silk robes engulfing her like smoke. She grins unabashedly when Harry waves at her, and she speeds up to meet him in front of the lift. “Thank _Merlin._ I thought you might have changed your mind and abandoned me to the wolves alone.”

Harry makes an offended noise. “When have I ever abandoned you? And I’m not even late!”

“Yes, but you’re not early, and that counts as late in my book.” 

“Well, your book is wrong.” 

“My book is never wrong.” 

Harry smiles at her, spirits lifted considerably. If there’s anyone who can brighten a drab day like this one, it’s her. He doesn’t know how she does it. “You’re right, I’m sorry. How are you?”

She smiles back wryly. “Never better.”

“Fucking ditto.”

She reaches out to pluck at the sleeve of his coat. “You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes. Have you gotten taller since I last saw you?”

“Older. I forgot what it was like to be fifty.” He looks down at himself, at his dreary, plain disguise. 

Bates scrunches her nose critically. “I like your other one better.”

“Me too. I smell like an old man.”

“You’re dressed like one, too.” She slips her arm under one of his and begins to lead him down the corridor towards the conference rooms, robes billowing. “Come on, Torres is waiting.”

Harry lets her guide him through the cool, twisting hallway, past the row of Chambers, towards the conference rooms. “Did you get a chance to talk to her?”

“Torres? Yes, briefly. She told me she’s been planning to check-in on our progress for a while.”

“Without Robards?” Harry asks.

“Without Robards,” Bates confirms. “But he demanded a place at the table, so. Here we are.”

“Prick,” Harry grumbles to himself as they stop in front of a paneled conference room. Inside, sitting at a long, neat table, is his boss, Rosa Torres, her hands folded in her lap. Her dark hair is pinned to the back of her head severely and she wears tight makeup around her eyes that make her look catlike and sharp. She stands as Bates pushes through the door, brushing non-existent dust off her deep blue robes.

“Agents,” she says, her voice smooth and professional. The brooch just above her breast displays the Department of Mysteries logo, glinting importantly under the light. “Thank you for coming in.”

Bates smiles, taut and polite. She lets go of Harry’s arm to shake Torres’s outstretched hand. “Our pleasure.”

Harry follows her lead, shaking his boss’s hand firmly when she turns to him. “Good to see you, Agent Green,” she says, meeting his eye. “It’s been too long.”

“You too,” he nods, but it feels forced. Over-formal. 

She steps back, hands re-clasping in front of her. “Head Auror Robards and his team should be here any minute now. Feel free to take a seat.”

They do, choosing two straight-backed chairs next to each other so they’re on the same side of the table. There’s a tray of tea in the center, seemingly untouched, and Harry helps himself to a large cup. He has a feeling he’s going to need it. 

“So,” Bates starts, conjuring a thick manilla folder from nowhere and dropping it onto the table with a _thud_. “What exactly are we allowed to talk about with the Aurors?”

Over the rim of his cup, Harry watches Torres eye the folder as she pulls out her seat and sits back down. “Those are your case notes?”

“They are.”

“Anything in there is subject to be asked about. When I spoke with them, they told me they had quite a few questions.” She frowns. “By all means, don’t feel obligated to answer. Both of you are at liberty to choose what you want to share with them.”

“No Veritaserum?” Harry clarifies.

She gives him a hawkish look. “Do I look like the Wizengamot to you? Absolutely not. You have the right to remain completely silent.”

“Just making sure.”

As Harry downs another gulp of hot caffeine, the door bursts open and a short parade of red uniforms comes streaming in. Robards is at the head of it, all puffy-chested and boorish, while a mousy-faced Fitzgerald follows at his heels holding a clipboard tight to his chest. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Robards booms in his deep, grating baritone as his dark gaze falls on Harry and Bates, a terse smile crinkling his eyes unattractively. “You’re both here already!”

Harry feels Bates tense beside him, and a cool, unamused look slides over her face. “With all due respect, sir, you asked us to be.”

Robards chuckles, and Harry remembers all at once how much he despises the man. “That I did, Agent. That I did.” Robards whips around to Torres and holds out his hand; she doesn’t bother standing up this time to shake it, the disdain clear on her face. He ignores it. “Rosa, good of you to be here. I’m so glad we could make this arrangement work.”

“As am I, Gawain.” She doesn’t sound glad. “Please, sit.”

“Thank you.” Robards pulls out the chair directly across from Harry, gesturing for his colleague to follow his lead. “This is Auror Fitzgerald, for those of you who don’t know. He’s leading the Homicide Division and wanted to take notes on the meeting in case he can add anything useful.”

Fitzgerald — like the rodent of a man he is — doesn’t offer up a greeting. “The Malfoy case was mine before it got passed over to you lot,” he says instead, dropping the clipboard on the table before sitting down. He seems angry in a muted, repressed way, like his boss just gave him a stern talking-to about not being angry. 

“We’re aware,” Bates says with freezing politeness. Harry’s extremely glad that she’s here to take the reins, but something in Fitzgerald’s tone doesn’t sit right with him.

“The Malfoy case?” he repeats back. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Ever the mediator, Robards slides in before his Fitzgerald can. “Not officially, no, it’s just shorthand.”

“Malfoy is the only suspect,” Fitzgerald adds, eyes blazing with ferocity. “It only makes sense to call it his case. We’re trying to convict _him_.”

Something nasty flares up in Harry’s stomach. “Last I checked, a conviction wasn’t in my job description,” he says, icy. 

Fitzgerald takes the challenge, leaning forward. “Nor is it in mine. That’s why we need to wrap this ‘investigation’ up and send it to the Wizengamot as soon as possible.”

Harry contemplates how ethical it would be for him to lunge across the table and throttle the tiny man with his bare hands. 

Torres sighs. “Not that this isn’t off to a wonderful start, but shall we put aside the animosity and begin?”

Robards smiles at her, his bared teeth crooked and white, and god, Harry hates him. “I think we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading :)) come say hi on [ tumblr](https://dynazty.tumblr.com/) if you so desire xx


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